Exiled Prince
by JubileeProductions
Summary: Exiled by the gods, Percy is left to roam the world listlessly, dodging SHIELD and HYDRA alike as he is tugged between two worlds. And now, something terrible and nameless is wakening within him. A fathomless force of lost power is clawing to the surface, burning away who we once knew as Percy Jackson. The gods have made a grave mistake.
1. Chapter 1

_How does one begin to describe the alleged Perseus Jackson? The first notion to come to mind is 'infamous'. Next would be 'dangerous'. He first came to the grid a decade ago. A nation-wide manhunt for a twelve year-old kid, along with a blonde and a crippled pre-teen. They managed to evade the authorities, which seemed impossible. But it was done._

_Percy Jackson's name was cleared once police caught up with him. The preteen claimed that he and his friends were kidnapped. His battle with the muscular abductor was caught on tape—using firearms as clubs. What made SHIELD skeptical was the boy's skill, how he managed to take down a fully capable man with more muscle then a body builder. _

_Then again, the police could have intimidated the man. But it was no doubt that the kidnapper fled the scene wounded. He never appeared on the grid again. SHEILD suspicion was minimized until Percy Jackson blew up a school gym. This time, his accomplice was a large, possibly autistic boy with legal records that label him 'homeless'. SHEILD suspected a falsified past and took in further research on the adolescent, where they turned out to be wrong. This 'Tyson' had grown up homeless, and only recently acquainted Jackson. _

_The two vanished from the grid somewhere around Manhattan—that is when SHEILD sent in their first operatives to confront the matter. They reported in, notifying SHIELD that what they saw was no more than a mere strawberry farm run by a man restrained in a wheelchair. They chose not to bother the peaceful soul. _

_Over the next few years, sightings of Percy Jackson had seemed possible—credible. Up until the boy blew up a mountain at fourteen. SHEILD's monodrones sighted Percy Jackson hurtling through the sky from the eruption, charred clothing and whatnot. SHIELD suspected him dead after he crashed into the ocean. But when operatives scanned the sea for the boy, he was nowhere to be seen. Again, he vanished from the grid. SHIELD hesitantly labeled him deceased. They were wrong._

_All this time SHIELD had observers monitor and bug Percy Jackson's house, a small apartment in Manhattan. His mother, Sally Jackson, seemed to have no knowledge of her son's actions, and she went about an ordinary life._

_Just as SHIELD was about to take Sally Jackson in, all of her operatives within the City and Long Island zone fell asleep. All of SHEILD was completely venerable. There are many theories on what happened, invisible and odorless gas, but the sensors would have detected that. It was the perfect tourist attack, and nearly all of New York City was demolished upon awakening. Yet not one citizen was found dead._

Steve Rogers blinked before rubbing his temples. "You want me to find him."

SHIELD Director Nickolas J. Fury was seated behind the desk of his office, dark eyes gazing out the glass wall. The pentagon could be seen from the top floor, ion which they occupied.

"I have my best operatives prepped for the assignment." Nick Fury said before he spun in his swivel chair to face the captain. "All of my operatives except you."

Steve glanced back down at the file in is hands. He turned to page and examined Percy Jackson's bio. "What are you playing at, Fury?" He murmured. "He's vanished off the globe."

"'Vanish' does not change the fact that he is out there. And we have ensured his current location." Nick Fury tilted his head up slightly and raised his voice. "Computer, show me Observer C."

The wall behind Steve Rogers seemed to flash to life as the clear monitor shown a live image of a busy dirt road. Steve turned to face the monitor, watching the people in ragged clothing call out prices from stands in various languages. A kid on a bike drove by the camera, making it shake slightly before it focused on a man across the road.

Percy Jackson was dressed in a grey tank top and some khaki shorts. His hair was windblown and wild, his stubble indicating that he had not shaved in a few days. He seemed to be talking with a scrawny little Indian boy, who was lugging a cart full of dirty water.

"This is a live feed of Boa India, a crowded corner of the world near the coast." Nick Fury explained.

Steve Rogers watched as Percy Jackson handed the boy a wad of European currency, only to be turned down.

"He runs the length of the beach every morning from 6-7 o' clock, then tries bargaining for water." Nick Fury eased back down in his chair. "He owns a jeep he barely uses, his house is nothing more than a wooden shack. He has a journal but it's written in some ancient form of Greek, and our translator scans keep crashing whenever we make them run. That man is keeping secrets. Secrets I want to know."

Steve Rogers was silent. Percy Jackson had taken off his watch and handed it out to the little boy. The Indian lad took it and held out a jug of water for Jackson to take, who accepted gratefully.

"And what makes you think I want to be a part of this operation?" Steve Rogers turned to face Nick Fury. "Jackson is living a humble enough life now."

"Never trust a criminal." Nick Fury regarded the captain. "And why do I think you'll join us? I know you will join us because we suspect he is another volunteer for the 'super soldier' program."

Steve Rogers hesitated.

"He runs every morning, nonstop, at a full sprint for a complete hour without breaking a sweat. That is impossible by human standards." Nick Fury stood again and rounded his desk. "He recovers from his long runs remarkably. Last week he was swimming in a community pool. He went under…" The director came to a stop before Steve. "… didn't come back up for 50 minutes and when he did, Jackson was completely dry.

"Believe it or not, Rogers, but this man is impossible. And I don't like it."

Steve Rogers blinked before glancing back up at the monitor. Jackson was chugging down the water remarkably fast. "If I take him in… we question him my way. No torture, no dark rooms."

Captain kept his gaze on the young man. Something that edged just out of reach from the back of his mind…_ there_. The nervous tick, a periodic glance over his shoulder. The drumming of his fingers. Steve Rogers did not see a criminal.

He saw a soldier.

…

**Please tell me what you think :) unfortunately, I have writers block on my other projects Dx if any of you have any good ideas on how to continue 'She's Out of your League' I'm more then willing to hear it! :D**


	2. Chapter One-A Tantrum

**Thanks to all for all the positive replies :D seriously, I was giggling like deranged maniac when I read the responses to my prologue. I'd like to say something in which I forgot to state last chapter: Avenges is not mine, and neither is Percy Jackson and the Olympians. Obviously.**

**I'd like to thank Lastsolace for pointing out my geographical mistake. The coasting population Percy's taking refuge in is indeed Goa, not Boa. My bad xD. **

…

Percy knew that the guy in the expensive-looking floral shirt was watching him. The guy had neat shades, khaki shorts, and sharply trimmed facial hairs. One thing Percy could tell just by looking at this guy: he was an idiot. If you wanted to spy on someone, you gotta look like everybody else. The dude was probably pretending to be a tourist. His next mistake, who in Hera's name would want to tour this crowded pocket of the world?

Percy turned his back on the man before the observer could tell he had spotted him, and engaged himself with a conversation with an Indian woman who was selling some small, useful utensils. Toothpicks, a few toothbrushes, a pair of swimming goggles, well in-tact. Jackson whistled his approval.

"You sure did find a good deal someplace."

Accessories such as the ones listed were of high value in Goa. It wasn't like the Indian occupants were stuck in the middle ages or anything of that sort. But still, sunglasses that are not cracked, some shirts that are devoid of any rips. A few stains, granted, but no tears in the fabric. This was some high quality material by Goa's standards.

Percy picked a toothbrush from its open container. It was a cheap toothbrush, clear-ish grey. Thankfully, it didn't look like it had been used. The woman leaned against the wooden table which held the utensils. She was middle-aged, some grey strands in her black braids and mild wrinkles claiming her features. She smiled wide, revealing exactly five teeth. Five yellow teeth. Nasty.

"You like?"

Percy nodded. "I like."

"What happened with other brush?"

The young man looked up sharply, recognizing her for the first time. She was the same woman of whom he had bought his last toothbrush.

"Uh…" She had the right to ask. This was his second toothbrush to be bought in the same week. But Percy doubted she would believe him if he were to tell her that his previous toothbrush was previously sticking out of the eye of a particularly nasty hellhound. A hellhound of which was probably whimpering in some dark corner. Serves that beast right for trying to bite off his head and smashing half of his shack into shambles.

"Lost it," Percy chuckled sheepishly.

"Yes? Well make sure you lose this one too so more money for Tia!" The woman, Tia, laughed obnoxiously.

Percy chortled hesitantly along with her laughter. He had no money besides the four crumpled European bills in his pocket. And these people didn't accept foreign currency. Percy felt his pockets, feeling for something of value. He had already given up his gods-given watch for a jug of water. He downed that dirty liquid in six gulps.

Percy took his time, fully aware that he was under the expectant stare of Tia. Also under the burrowing glare of his stalker, who was now pretending to pick his teeth while gazing in a mirror of an open shop, but really was using said mirror to check up on Percy. The moron. Who hired this guy?

The young man fished out a golden pen from his pocket. He froze. _By the gods..._

Percy dropped the pen and took a step back. _What are you doing here?_ Impossible. This pen... it was ripped from his. The connection was severed! He crouched own, staring. _Why come to me now?_

"What is wrong?" Tia took drew in a look of impatience.

The prince of the sea glanced up as if from a daze, blinking from his reverie. "Huh?"

"You going to pay with pen? Good pen, must cost fortune."

_More than a fortune, mortal. _

Percy scooped up the pen. His heart was a thundering drum in his ears as he grasped the weapon in his fist. _It has been a long time, old friend._ Too long of a time.

"Are you going to pay?" Tia made her words more pronounced. Her tone indicated that he was trying her patience.

Percy stood, his eyes still on the golden pen. "I… uh… I gotta go."

The Exiled Prince took a few steps back, eyes still on the pen. And then he ran, ran as fast as his immortal legs would take him. Percy ripped through the crowd, annoyed shouts in various Asian languages. He noticed that his stalker had broken into a sort-of discreet pursuit after him. Percy didn't care. He did not care.

He cleared the market place at a full sprint and wound down a path that lead to the beach. Tears were etched at the corners of his eyes and they were lost in the wind as he came to a stop just beyond the water. The sea. His domain. Or once was. Chest heaving, Percy lifted his head and shouted, his voice thundering over sea like a crashing tidal.

"_WHY NOW?!"_

The sea churned and writhed, the blue-grey depths responding in their own secret way. Secrets Percy knew.

"You _banished _me!" Percy screamed. "You threw into an oblivion like tossing aside a used RAG! And after I climbed out, suffering the torments of Tartarus,_ after all that you have done to me!_" The prince took in a ragged breath. "_AND YOU STILL EXPECT ME TO HELP YOU?! To save your petty lives time and time again while you cower on your thrones?!" _

Percy gripped Aklusmos tighter in his fist before he hurled her out and over the sea. _"I am no longer your puppet! AND I HAVE THE SCARS TOO PROVE IT!"_

Perseus Jackson stood there on the beach, just out of reach of the tide. His chest heaved as it dealt with the aftermath of his tantrum. His blood churned with anger in his veins.

"You cast me out." He growled, teeth clenched. "And out I will stay. Fight your war. I will have no part in it."

That evening Aklusmos still had not returned.

…

**That's it, for now :) again, I am shocked with how much love this installment in Fanfiction is getting. Keep it up!**


	3. Chapter Two-From Another Life

**Again, I am shocked by the waves of encouragement that slammed into me. They make me more than happy. It's more like an emotion that I will forever fail to explain….**

**Marimart, I apologize for not being clear enough on the description of Percy's stalker. I'm afraid that he was not Steve Rogers xD but the said Observer C.**

**I don't own Percy Jackson, if I did, I'd have him warm my bath water or something.**

**Same thing stands for the Avengers.**

…

The rumbling hum of the hover jets was a nice upgrade from the World War II War Birds, Steve Rogers noted. He was sure that Stark had a hand in the creation of this air craft, somewhere down the line.

The captain sat strapped down to one of the many seats within the belly of the beast. The hover jet was on some sort of stealth setting. When one of his fellow operatives tried explaining the process of 'stealth mode' to the captain, but he lost Steve when 'Perematic Mirrorized Platiles' entered the massive equation.

Across from Steve sat Natasha Romanoff, a red-haired top-ranking op, as most would put it. Rogers could just settle with 'Dishonest Spy'. That was a much simpler term for the young woman. Next to Steve sat Clint. He didn't know the master archer's last name, despite saving the world by the agent's side. Clint Barton, codename Hawk Eye, was spinning an explosive arrow between his fingers carelessly. The man looked bored. An shocking difference from the intense focus he wore when confronting the Chitauri.

Agent Maria Hill was piloting the aircraft, and from what Steve could tell from her bios, she was closest to Nickolas J. Fury. She seems to show more compassion than most SHIELD agents, she smiled more than Natasha smirked, and talked more than Clint scowled. So Hill was the safest bet for a date, if Rogers was interested.

The rest of the agents were men and women Steve did not know, and did not want to know. A few chatted quietly, while others examining the targets bio with glass tablets.

"You nervous, big boy?" Natasha spoke for the first time since the aircraft took off. Her smirk seemed teasing, for some reason. "Remember, if things get too hot, just hit him over the head with your Frisbee."

"I'll take a note." Steve replied evenly. He still couldn't believe that he was doing this. This... the whole operation... It felt… _wrong. _

"Just don't give the kid a concussion." Clint murmured absentmindedly. "Makes things antsy for an interrogation."

"I'll try to restrain myself." Muttered Steve.

Rob Herling, codename Anaconda, stood from his seat. He was an imposing African American agent, as tall as Steve himself. Anaconda was bald and a scar split through his pronounced cheekbones. He was dressed in military camo pants, with trek boots and a bullet vest. A high frequency commlink sat in his vest pocket with a wire spiraling up to his ear. Normally, SHIELD avoided wires.

"Evening ladies and gentlemen." His voice was deep as he addressed the operatives.

A large glass panel slid smoothly from the floor with a soft hiss and images were immediately displayed. Top right corner shown a mug shot of Percy Jackson in his late teens. Probably taken for his driver's license. In the middle of the clear monitor displayed a highly detailed map of Goa India. Letters popped to life, A, B, C, and D. The Observers.

"As you all know, Jackson has taken residence near the coast. A nice little shack away far enough so not to draw attention." Oh, so this was a briefing. "Though as of now," Anaconda continued, "we have no records of Jackson wielding any sort of weapon. In the past he may have swung a bat around, and a gun, but no specific weapon of choice."

Steve took a mental note of this. Should make things easier.

"However," Anaconda continued, "observers _have _reported that he had trained with a Brazilian martial artist for a couple years. Jackson bested his mentor on the third year of his training."

"Nothing a notreeno dart won't fix." Called an agent. He was cleaning the barrel of a silver blow gun.

Anaconda nodded toward Steve Rogers, giving him the spotlight. He _was _the captain, after all. Steve unbuckled himself from his harness and set his shield on his back. Squaring his shoulders, the walking fossil stepped up to the briefing board and gave Anaconda a nod, who stepped aside. Ops began to stand as Hill called through the intercom.

"We're over Goa now, shifting to Drift Approach."

The thrusters of the jet died away but the shielded propellers on each wing lifted the jet higher. The hum of the engines became a faint hiss. All eyes were on the captain. Steve examined the detailed map on the briefing board for a fleeting moment before he turned to face the operatives.

"We fan out. I'll take a few of you through the city. Herling and Romanoff, take the coast. Barton, you take two choice operatives and secure the shack."

"I prefer to work alone," Clint muttered, "these buffoons will just get in my way."

That comment drew glares, and incited an amused smirk from Natasha.

"Fine," Captain America pulled fitted on his helmet and buckled the strap under his chin. "If any of you encounter Jackson, subdue him."

"What about me?" Maria Hill stepped out from the cockpit.

"Aren't you suppose-wait-who's driving?!" Steve nearly jumped out of his boots.

"Autopilot."

"What... You know? Forget it." The captain shook his head, his cheeks reddening slightly through the embarrassment. "You can-… uh… make sure autopilot doesn't malfunction?"

"Impossible."

"You never know with machines."

"Impossible, Stark designed it."

Steve chuckled. "Right, you're staying."

"What if Jackson breaks the perimeter?"

"He won't."

…

Percy was trying to get drunk. The bottle of cold beer in his hand fizzed slightly as he uncorked to head. This was his fourth bottle. He still wasn't drunk. Maybe only spawns of Dionysus could get drunk? Percy's immune system was too strong, it slaughtered the effects of the beer. Jackson could not get drunk.

He just wanted one night of happy delusion to dissuade his grief. Grief that gnawed ruthlessly at his gut, his heart. His soul. Regret, grief, guilt, agony, hate, betrayal. He wanted to numb it all, to make the tempest of bitter emotion a little spec at the back of his mind. Percy's spirit would not allow it.

The Exiled Prince gazed over the sea from the window of his shack. He was seated, slumped, in kneaded rocking chair. He hated the sea. For it belonged to the deity he had once called father. Now, beyond the wondrous reach of the sea, the song of the tide tormented him. Like the voice of the sirens when he saved Annab-

_No. Don't you dare think about her. _

Percy stood and hurled his beer over the beach. It landed in the sand a few paces from the tide. Before, he wouldn't dare litter in his father's domain. He wouldn't dare harm the creatures that had once called him lord. Now they called him traitor. Now, Percy didn't give a schist.

He stepped away from the window. Percy had to leave. He was too close to the shore. He had hoped the swishing of the tide would calm him, like it used to, but now it just leered. But first, he had to do something.

Percy grabbed his journal and began tearing through the pages. He stopped at one page. A picture was taped there. He stared at that picture, his eyes burning with brimming tears.

_I have been living the past. _

Percy tore out the whole page, photo and all, from his journal and began fumbling through a drawer. He found a small leather satchel, the size of a coin back, and emptied its single occupier. He stared at the small, beautiful trinket in his palm before he closed his fingers around it, squeezing it in his fist.

_No longer. _

Percy stepped out around his small house and fished around in the back of his jeep until he found a canteen of gasoline. He began trickling it about his home, the wood of the walls would help the fire spread. Tossing aside his clothes, Percy fitted on his night-blue hoodie and dark jeans. The young man took from his hoodie pocket a lighter. He flicked the tool to life and tossed it through the window.

_My past is now ashes._

He glared at his handiwork, the fire creeping up the walls and enveloping the roof. The rocking chair was already charred. Percy knew he should run, but something held him back. Something made him linger for one last moment.

"You're making a mistake." The owner of the voice stepped up beside the Exiled Prince.

Percy hunched his shoulders. "What are you doing here?" His tone was devoid of emotion.

"Does it not seem obvious?"

Percy turned to face the goddess. "I'm no longer a hero, Athena." He whispered. "That was a different person. Now, that person is dead. In his place a stranger."

Athena did not confront Percy with her usual cold demeanor in which she had always used in the past. Her grey eyes were soft, sad. Percy turned his gaze back to the fire.

"I don't believe that." Athena whispered. "Do you know why?"

The Exiled Prince did not answer.

"Because I know your fatal flaw." She rested her hand on his shoulder. "The gods were wrong to exile you, Perseus."

Percy hunched his shoulders further still, his eyes dancing with the fire. The Olympians had voted for his exile. Artemis, Apollo, Hestia and Athena had elected against his banishment. The rest nominated in favor. He hated them, hated them all. The irony, really. The goddess who hated his guts since the beginning decides to like him now, out of all times.

Athena took his hand. Percy turned to face her as she pressed a golden pen into his palm. The coolness of the metal seemed to sooth him. The Exiled Prince stared down at the weapon as Athena closed his fingers around it. A tear trickled down one cheek and wetted the sand.

"They will cast me down to Tartarus again." Percy whispered. "No matter what I do, I'm not welcome any more."

"Do you need to be?" Athena rested her hands on his broad shoulders. She was taller than him, a head taller. "Don't be loyal to the gods, that path has forsaken you. Be loyal to yourself. Trust who you are, Perseus."

A pair of rosy lips pressed against his forehead.

"But who-…" Percy looked back up. Athena was gone. He stood there for a moment, trapped inside himself. A battle within. Only the roof collapsing caught his attention. The Exiled Prince faced the fire the raging fire again and took a step back. He stared down at Aklusmos. The light of the fire made the pen look like it was glowing.

Percy thumbed the cap. One click, that's all it would take. Just one click and it would all begin again. All who he ever was, all that he once was stored in the spirit of a magical sword.

Not so cliché as one might think.

_No. Not yet. _

He will think about it. And this time he will give himself a chance.

As Percy Jackson turned his back to the burning shack, the last think to catch aflame was a small photo. The photo was of a handsome young man with eyes as green as the sea, nearly unrecognizable in his black suit, gazing into the storm-grey eyes of a blonde young woman.

A young woman in a Greek-style wedding dress. The flames consumed the photo. All that was left was a red-hot trinket.

A wedding ring.

From another life.

…

**Dun dun duuuununnnnn…. I wedding ring?! Had Percy once been married? What had happened for him to think of himself this way? I myself don't even know yet xD I hope you enjoyed!**


	4. Chapter Four-A Fight

**SDJKasfhasbfsjbfhbfebfsjbfsdjbfasfbdfbsdnmfsdnfsdttrrhrtawehhjbgdhjbgdhv**

**That was my brain once started reading all the wonderful reviews. Honestly, 57 reviews?! And there were only 3 chapters then! *melts***

**Kljdlkjzsblnf fb asfl asfnasbflasbfslfjsbkvjks**

**Look at you all, already pairing characters up and whatnot :D I'm not sure about PercyxLoki 'cause I might already *cough cough* have an idea of Percy's romantic life… possibly. **

**Also, I apologize for any typos I might have stumbled through in the past and near future. I'm a busy man, and I don't have Beta Reader xD **

**Also, an apology about the last chapter for all the grammar issues. **

**A DISCLAIMER FOR YOU ALL. I don't own one single thing I am writing at this moment. **

**Oh**

**And one more thing…**

…

Jackson was smarter then Clint Barton could have guessed. But one with a criminal track record like Jackson's, it shouldn't be a surprise.

Clint was not surprised.

He was angry.

The SHIELD agent kicked aside a mass of burnt, smoking wood. It was nearly daybreak, and all what he had left to see was a shack burned to the ground. Clint was, indeed, working alone. He liked it that way. No other footsteps, no other breathing. Just him, his bow, and his prey. It was a hunt, and he was the hunter.

His prey, however, was no gazelle. Jackson could cover his tracks. Clint probably won't be able to pick up the tr-

Footprints.

In the sand.

The SHIELD agent lifted his finger to the commlink in his ear. "Jackson burned down his shack, but I found footprints heading east, up shore."

The high frequency radio waves traveled through the air in a split second as they reached every field agent involved in the operation. Steve Rogers was the first to answer.

"Take pursuit but do not engage unless completely necessary. We're shifting the perimeter."

Clint's flashlight lit the way down the way Jackson's footprints led. "Who put you in charge anyway?"

Silence on the other end. He guessed a few agents were snickering.

"Just shut up and do what you're told." Came Steve's muttered reply.

Geez. The captain sure was in a cranky mood tonight.

As Clint Barton followed the trail of footprints, he mulled over how he had over-estimated the target. Jackson really was an idiot. Then again, these footprints could be a hoax. A decoy. Hawk Eye noted how quiet it was. The swishing of the tide was growing distant. Not one nocturnal animal made the slightest sound. These were now hunting grounds, and the animals knew better then to interfere.

…

Percy had kicked in the door to a church. Strange, not many churches were locked around here. Something about trusting your neighbor. Evidently, that didn't seem to pay off so much. Though Percy _did _feel a bit guilty. Kicking in the doors of a place of worship wouldn't look so good on his resume.

The church was dark, nobody occupied the building at this time of night. Not even a night guard. But this wasn't any official church. It was community-built. Percy slumped into a booth at the back of the rows. What would it be like? To believe in only one God? What if this one God was the only true God in existence? And the Olympians are just some prank…

That would be a nice life. Being a Christian, it looked so simple. And peaceful.

Percy stood from where he sat and ambled up the aisle. He ran his hand along the wood of the booths he passed. Memories bathed his mind and weighted his heart.

_A veil, behind it a beautiful face. A beautiful smile, and beautiful eyes. A ring fitting perfectly on his finger. A ring sliding up the finger of his betrothed. The ring fits snuggly, and it looks so perfect. So perfect._

_A kiss, a true, passionate kiss in which he loses himself in._

_And… and._

And it was no longer his.

Percy Jackson let out an enraged roar punched through a mosaic of Jesus in the manger. The glass shattered outward and down, some shards bouncing off his shoulders. He planted his hands against the wall and hung his head, chest heaving. He needed to see a physiatrist. The spurts of uncontrollable rage was getting worse. It would be a lie if he were to say that he was 'okay'.

Percy Jackson was angry. Not just at the gods or the fates. Not just God, or the mosaic he just punched through.

The Exiled Prince was angry at the universe.

He had to get out of here before he kicked down the wall.

Percy turned to face the door, only to freeze. A man was stepping through the threshold. He was medium in height, with short dark hair, blue eyes, and a solid build. He wore a black, sleeveless shirt, clasped in his hand was a modern bow. Arrows filled the quiver strapped to his back.

The man stopped once reaching mi-length of the aisle. He squared his feet before crossing his arms.

"You're a hard man to find, Jackson."

Percy shot up both eyebrows. "Uh… excuse me?" How did this man know his last name? And why had he been trying to find him?

_His stalker. _Hades, how had he forgotten? Surely the stalker from yesterday couldn't have been working alone. This was probably his contact.

_Schist. _

The Exiled Prince immediately felt danger. He hadn't felt like this since war. The raw, overpowering sense of a cornered animal. Percy took a step back before his hand instinctively drifted for the pocket bearing Anaklusmos.

"Who the hades are you?" The young man narrowed his eyes.

The stranger rolled his shoulders before sliding his bow into its holster across his back.

"Doesn't matter who I am. What matters is who you are." He smirked. "My first real fight in ages."

Percy spared a glance toward the window. He could make a run for it, but turning his back on this stranger would be bad. Bad.

"Don't think of running Jackson, we have the perimeter secure." The stranger said. "Packed tight with agents. The thing is that they don't know I've found you yet."

Percy let his hand drop from his pocket. Wouldn't work much anyway, this guy was a mortal.

"Why not call your buddies?"

"Because _this_," Clint smirked, "this will be interesting."

And with that, Hawk Eye charged, sprung, braced his booted foot against a booth, and pushed off, momentarily airborne. Percy's senses screamed. It has been so long. _So long. _All in an instant his instincts pulled the strings. He didn't even think. Not one thought. Just him, this man, and the raw fight.

Percy Jackson palmed Clint's fist with one hand and grabbed the agent's wrist with the other, twisting and slamming him into the ground. Clint grunted and locked his arms around Percy's leg, lifted him up and brought him down hard onto an offerings table, which splinter under Jackson's weight. Clint snatched up a metal candle stand and brought the makeshift cudgel down hard. Percy flipped up a Bible and blocked the blow before kicking his aggressor back.

He rolled to his feet and drove the Bible into Clint's toes, inciting a crow of agony from the man. Percy drove the Bible into the throat of the agent and pushed him back violently against an encased, the glass that protected its relics shattering. He smashed Clint across the face with the thick Book, then gave the agent a good solid punch in the jaw.

Clint grunted and connected his fist with Percy's stomach, followed by knee. The Exiled Prince heaved and stumbled back and away from the agent. Clint strung his bow, he himself panting.

'"It's been a pleasure."

Clint had drawn a tranquil arrow, the tip was so thin that it was a needle. A projectile meant for injection. The agent let the arrow fly.

Two heartbeats. One blink.

A blink of shock.

Clint's blink.

Percy had caught the arrow. Within the split second it took for the projectile to reach the exiled Prince, he had tossed aside the Bible. And _caught _the arrow.

Perseus Jackson scowled as he snapped the arrow and dropped each half to the floor.

Percy flexed his fingers, it felt _so good _to feel this way again. The thrill of a battle. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, drums beat in his ears, his soul screamed.

And a star spangled shield slammed into his back.

The Exiled Prince grunted, sprawling flat out on the floor. Pain flared up his spine.

_A trick._

Percy was back on his feet in an instant and he pivoted aside just in time to avoid a kick from a red-haired woman. He leaped to dodge a whip sparkling with electricity which cracked at his legs, wielded by a tall African American. More agents were spilling into the church, but these kept their distance, weapons loaded.

"Stand down, Jackson." The speaker was a tall, muscular blond man in some sort of dark, battle suit. On his arm, the round, red white and blue shield. "We don't want any trouble."

The red-head rolled her eyes.

"Yeah?" Percy wiped a drop of blood from the corner of his mouth. "You should've thought of that before you threw your Frisbee in my back."

"We just want to take you in."

"Adoption?"

"Interrogation."

"Ever heard of knocking?" Percy smirked. "I hear it's common these days."

Captain America didn't have a chance to answer.

Two shots. Ripping through flesh. Tearing through the body with merciless ruthlessness.

Percy Jackson gasped and stumbled forth. Steve caught him by the shoulders. Agents began shouting with confusion. Clint drew his bow. All of it didn't matter. All of it was a distant haze. A blur, an echo.

What mattered were the two bullet holes in his back, given to him by two soviet slugs.

Then all Percy knew was white.

…

**Ooooooooooh, if any of you have seen 'The Winter Soldier" I bet you could guess who fired those slugs. **

**I just love leaving you people dangling over the edge of cliffhangers. Makes me grin evilly.**

**HAVE A WONDERFUL CHRISTMAS! :D**

Charles


	5. Chapter Five-Who Is This?

**The reason I'm replacing this chapter is simple, I wasn't satisfied. Not only did I introduce a possible ship prematurely, but it was outrageously short. I've been stumped on how to continue for some time and I think I **_**may **_**have come with a solution. **

**Also, I still can NOT believe the feedback I'm getting with this! Over a hundred and fifty reviews, and hundreds of follows and favorites. I love you guys 3 **

…

Steve Rogers did not like the helicarrier. It wasn't that it was a massive ship made for the sky. _That_ he could handle. It was the nagging knowledge, the realization that there is a difference between a spy and a soldier. Steve was a soldier, and he would never be a spy.

He hated it, the secrets. He didn't pass soldiers in the halls who had their back beaten by war, who would offer him a nod of acknowledgement and respect. He passed killers, assassins, master espionage ops. Steve considered himself just like any other soldier, a man fighting to end the chaos. Honest, strong, and resolute. The captain thought himself soldier, only just… _bigger _than the average troop.

"People call him the Winter Soldier," Natasha Romanov settled down into a seat across the table from Steve Rogers. For once she seemed serious, even shaken, if possible.

"That was no soldier," Steve leaned forward in his own seat and examined the picture lying flat on the table, "he was masked and shot down an unaware opponent. In the back. Twice."

"What-, you expect him to toss down the iron gauntlet?" Clint Barton snorted. He sat in his chair backwards, arm slung over the backrest as he tended to the fletching of a black arrow. "Sorry cap, but things don't work like that nowadays."

Steve refrained from yet again reminding the smirking agent that they never tossed gauntlets in World War II. That would only make the smirk wider.

Natasha Romanov kicked back and rested her legs upon the table top. "A master assassin with bullets that have no label. He never leaves a mess. He never fails, he's never seen. He might as well be a ghost."

The picture Steve was examining was taken on the field by one of the ops. It was slightly blurry, so he could barely make out the wild hair, masked face, and smoking gun of this shadowy figure.

"Until now," Clint sounded satisfied. "Now that leaves just another question to add to the stockpile."

"Who else would want Jackson dead?" Steve clarified.

…

Percy Jackson had not a dream such as this since the battle with Gaea.

Percy Jackson lay in a meadow. The glade was peaceful. Butterflies flitted about, a rabbit chewed on the roots of some sweet plant. This was a familiar setting, like the painful innocence before a stealthy storm. And so Percy braced himself.

Lightning struck him with all of Zeus' fury.

A bolt so bright, so brilliant, and so _terrible _slammed into his chest and as the lightning met body, blue turned to red, and sky became blood. And the sky became the sea. And Percy was drowning. Gasping and writhing, Percy flailed in the endless see of spilled blood, his lungs screaming and begging for air. Above all else, above the crashing of bloody waves and roaring of the winds came a thundering voice.

"_You dare return after what you have done?!" _

Something wrapped about his legs and forced him under the surface of the blood-sea.

"_I will see you suffer, Perseus Jackson."_

The coils of shadows that bound Percy's legs grew searing hot, and he screamed. Blood gushed into the young man's lungs as a voice rumbled and shook the world.

_I bathe in the blood of innocents._

"Ah, the child banished from death," the voice rumbled, beyond the deepest baritone.

Down and down Percy was hauled, further down into the dark, bloody abyss. And as the Exiled Prince was being swallowed by the earth at the bottom of the sea, and mighty churning force of darkness formed above him.

Tartarus in all his dreadful glory, the primordial god of torture, misery, and suffering stared down at him.

And smiled.

"_Welcome home."_

Percy's sea-green eyes shot open and gasped, his expanding as his lungs inhaled deeply, as if he really had been holding his breath. Perspiration wetted his forehead, causing dark strands of hair to cling to his brow.

The exiled prince stared up.

A shocked looking doctor stared back.

Then man blinked several times, staring in utter disbelief at Percy. He muttered something that sounded along the lines of "impossible" and rushed to a computer resting at a lab desk. Percy Jackson tried to move. Pain flared through his body and he immediately abandoned his efforts.

"Where am I?" Percy managed to rasp out in a hoarse voice.

A nurse's face promptly filled his vision. She removed her surgeon's mask and spread a practiced smile. "Don't worry about that right now, just focus on me, honey, can you do that?"

She dabbed a cool cloth to his brow as she spoke, and Percy dare mused that it felt wonderful. The back of his mind scolded him for listening to the nurse. He was a prisoner. But he was also wounded, and therefore he couldn't knock around any skulls if he were a mangled mess.

"Still looks bad," the other doctor said, "God knows how he can remain conscious…"

Percy would've laughed if it didn't hurt to so much as twitch. _Ever been to Tartarus, pal?_

"He doesn't appear to have any form of exhilarated healing like Roger's," the doctor mused, "still, it baffles me to see how he's still alive…"

"Does he always talk aloud?" Percy croaked.

The nurse broke her act enough to stifle a giggle. The doctor opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it. "Emily, stop batting your lashes at the prisoner and notify bridge that Jackson is conscious."

The nurse, Emily, withdrew whilst fake-pouting to do as she was told.

_Bridge?_ "Are we on a ship?" Percy found his strength gaining. It was getting easier to move by the minute.

The doctor cast a smirk, "Of a fashion."

Percy Jackson did not like that answer.

…

Agent Maria Hill stood at the bridge. All around her, in lowered platforms, the helicarrier's piloting and management crew relayed information aloud through mics and comms, fingers flying over keyboards as they navigated the air ship.

The agent stared out the main windshield, eyeing the clouds with a rising suspicion. She was no major in atmospherics, but Maria was completely certain that clouds weren't supposed to move on their own accord, especially when the wind-meter was down to an almost inactive digit.

"You see it, too," Clint Barton remarked as he stepped up beside Maria Hill, eyes forward. "Thought I was going nuts."

Maria stepped up to the railing bordering the bridge walkway. "Peerson," she addressed a cleanly cut young man in the SHIELD uniform, "lower the ship. Out of the clouds."

James Peerson blinked up at the agent with slight bafflement. "Erm…"

"_Now." _

He immediately set to work. The drop in altitude was noticeable, clouds whipped by the viewing panels.

"Could be nothing," Clint leaned back against the railing. He didn't look convinced.

"It's never nothing," Maria snapped.

A notification light on her commlink signaled that an update was coming via frequency waves. Maria touched her finger to her communications device. "Talk to me."

"Jackson is fully conscious and clear of any nausea," a female voice reported from the other end.

"And?" Maria could tell the voice was strained, shaken.

"Well-, he says that we're all fools. And-And..."

Maria held her breath.

"And that we're all going to die."

Whether that was a threat or simple fact would never be known, for the remark was nearly forgotten upon the entire helicarrier lurching. Alarms sounded, Maria Hill clenched to the railing to keep from tumbling.

"What's happening?!" She shouted. Clint drew his bow, an expression of intense calm claiming his features.

"It's… it's a storm, Agent Hill." The female operator seemed speechless. Several times she opened and closed her mouth, trying to form words. Finally, another agent spoke, eyes glued to the screen.

"It's a storm, and we are in the very center of it."

The nurse's voice echoed through Maria Hill's mind.

_He says that we're fools. _

_And that we're all going to die._

…

**I dearly wish that I had more time to lengthen this chapter further still, but every tie I ask life for a break it gives me this flat stare.**

**Hopefully, I'll be able to update for you all soon. I hope you have a very fine day-night-morning-evening moon festival BANANA. **


	6. Chapter Six - Where is He?

**And at long last a legitimate update. It has been such a long time, and I can't keep apologizing because one can get sick of that. As I have. Let's just say I got 'side tracked'. Anyway, I have a question for you guys. I'm thinking about opening a Roleplay forum that crosses with Avengers and PJO. Am I allowed to do that? I've never seen any forum crossovers. Just thought I'd ask.**

**Disclaimer – I'm getting sick of stating the obvious here…**

…

The storm was attacking the helicarrier.

Such a thing was assumed to be impossible. How could a storm, a hurricane, intentionally attack an aircraft? There were no stray flashes of lighting, no random gusts of wind. Every bolt hit mark, every howling flurry battered directly. This was no standard storm.

Steve Rogers grasped the latch to a locked door to steady himself as the helicarrier shook from suffering yet another direct hit of lightning. The channeling rods that were mean to absorb the bolts didn't seem to work at all, they didn't even so much as attract the lighting, as electricity generally should. Steve knew that much of science to gather that this storm was much, _much _more then it seemed.

Rob Herling was shouting into his comm, something about securing the prisoner.

_Jackson, _Steve thought as he dashed further up the hall, only to be stalled by another jolt that made the ship lurch violently, _could he have something to do with this?_

The thought almost seemed ridiculous. Not even Thor in a crappy mood could muster a storm like this. Last time he conjured something _remotely _relative to something of the likes of this, the god had taken to eating five full orders of Schwarma. Not even Banner, who had a whole beast to feed, could amount to that much Mexican fast-food.

_Have I changed that much? To the point of now calling Thor a god? _

The helicarrier was leaking. Rainwater was already pouring from the cracks and seams in the ceiling, some trickled, and others were torrents.

"Herling," Leaning against the wall, Steve faced the op, "Herling, help me with this."

With the strength of six men, the five supplied by Steve, the two ops pried open a jammed, sensorated door. Steve Rogers propped the door open with his shield so they, including other trapped and frantic staff, could slip through onto safer grounds. As the last man, a technician, rushed though the slim opening, the captain pulled his shield from between the slideable door so it could move back into place. The technician, whose nametag read 'Bert', slid the titanium floodlock.

The hall they were now in still leaked, but only mildly. Staff were already running down the corridor, dozens, if not tens of dozens, crowding the hall. Steve didn't find any use in running, this whole airborne container they were in was in danger. Running wouldn't help at all.

Steve Rogers stopped in mid-stride. His hair suddenly stood on end and a scent filled his nostrils. A scent so powerful that he was compelled to cover his nose. The captain fought the urge, instead taking in a deep whiff.

Was that… ozone?

Before Steve could shout a warning, two technicians and a pilot were thrown back off their feet after the clasping sound of a thunderclap filled the air. Steve Rogers ducked and rolled aside to dodge a scorched corpse, lifting his shield to deflect a concentrated blow of electricity.

A creature made of mist stood at the end of the hallway, it must've formed from the very air. Agents ducked into flanking rooms to dodge electrified attacks that streamed out of the creature's body, whipping out hand guns. A nurse was scorched down to the bone as she turned to run, her scream haunting Steve's ear.

Steve stood straight and stared. The creature wasn't made of any sustaining substance, and now that he could see it clearly, wasn't of mist. The figure was a storm cloud, man-shaped, with swirling little maelstroms that must've been the eyes.

"Show me the Exiled Prince so I may end him," The creature hissed, "I am Aeorus, servant to the Sky God. And I have come to end what-,"

Aeorus' dialogue was interrupted by a star spangled Frisbee to the face. The shield passed right through that face, which dissipated upon contact. Steve felt a moment's triumph. That is, until Aeorus' head reformed as though nothing had happened.

Lightning crackled in the creature's eyes, "You will pay for that, _mort-_."

As Aeorus spoke, the shield rebounded off the far wall and came whizzing back, passing through the creature's head yet again with the same ease as before. The head dissolved, and just as before, reformed.

"Cursed mortal!" He – it – shrieked, "Your blood will _boil!_"

Blue electricity sparked along Aeorus' twister-like arms. As twin bolts of lightning sprung from the end of those arms, Steve rose his shield. The force of the attack sent Rogers flying backward down the corridor. He slammed into the floodlocked door, grunting as the air was forced from his lungs. Steve dropped to the floor, rolling forward to retrieve his shield, and came up into a crouched stance just in time to deflect another fleck of lightning. The captain gritted his teeth and dug in his heels from the effort to withstand his defensive stance.

The lightning kept coming, like a sparking river of white doom spilling from Aeorus' wispy fingertips. Steve was reminded of a movie he watched a few weeks back with Tony Stark. Star Wars? Yes, Star Wars. Aeorus, at this moment, resembled the cackling Emperor as he tortured Luke whilst the young Jedi screamed for his father's aid.

_I _am _changing, _Steve mused as he hurled his shield, _Stark's a bad influence on me._

Captain America charged the storm-creature-thing. Aeorus fired lightning (the guy _could_ be more creative in his attacks) and Steve leapt, braced his boot against the wall, and pushed, flipping over the creature entirely. The captain landed just in time to catch the shield he had thrown and spun, blocking yet another blast from Aeorus, who hissed in frustration.

"You are a waste of my time," the creature spat disdainfully as it rose both arms over its head.

A blast of wind so utterly overwhelming _slammed _into Rogers, hurtling him backwards into the far wall. Steve groaned, rolling on his back, head ringing. That _hurt._

"The Exiled Prince,"

The air around Steve became constricting, wrapping around his chest and throat like an icy vice grip. Aeorus hoisted the captain off his feet effortlessly, bringing his face dangerously close.

"Where is he?"

Steve choked, clawing at the misty fingers around his throat, "Wh-Who-?"

He was slammed back into the wall. Steve crumpled to the floor, gasping desperately for breath. "Who..?"

Lightning jolted up Steve Roger's spine as he was dragged from the floor and hung in the air again.

"The Exiled Prince! The child banished from death!" Screeched Aeorus, "Where is he?!"

Steve was slammed against the wall yet again. There he was pinned, life slowly slipping away.

"_Where is Perseus Jackson?!"_

…

Perseus Jackson was dying.

This the demigod knew, and this he accepted. But he would have preferred to die peacefully, maybe surrounded by people who didn't hate him. That list was smaller than he'd hoped. But this, the feeling of dying, it was excruciatingly painful.

The med system that had supported his blood flow and injected medicine had died. Thanks a lot, blasted storm. And now Percy was surviving only by the bandages blocking the blood. And yet he still felt his life slipping, edging to escape from this living hell. The alarms in the helicarrier were growing monotonous, it was already pretty obvious that the sky was attacking them, no need to scream it in his face. Percy could feel him, Zeus, he could feel the rage of the god surround the ship, squeezing it like an ever tightening noose.

The ship lurched and the Exiled Prince was thrown off his cot. He hit the floor, groaning. His restrains had been removed a while ago. Emily, the ever cheerful nurse, was not so cheerful at the moment. She grabbed him under the arms, shouting, _begging _for him to keep breathing.

"Have you ever loved somebody?" Emily dabbed the sweat from Percy's forehead. Tears were in her eyes. "A mother? Father? Maybe some siblings, a girlfriend, a wife? Try thinking about them, Jackson, can you do that? Please picture them."

The alarms were fading. No, _Percy _was fading. He tried to picture them, he really did. Frank's goofy smile, Leo's snarky comments, Jason's pat on the shoulder. All those memories, they seemed so distant, so utterly out of reach. So utterly hopeless to relive.

"Annabeth," Percy choked. He coughed out some blood and breathed in with rasp.

Emily's smile brightened and a tear ran down her cheek. _What must this be like for her? _Percy mused distantly, _she must know she's going to die._

"Yes, yes, Mr. Jackson. Annabeth, tell me about Annabeth." She wiped at his bloody lips.

"W… W-Why?"

"Because, honey," the nurse stroked his brow, "A man's last thoughts should be of those he treasures the most."

So she knew he was dying.

"Wise words from… from a nurse."

"I'm also a psychologist."

Percy's thoughts drifted to Annabeth. Her white smile, her endearing obsession of agriculture, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear… It was all just as far as Piper's quips, his father's embrace, and the Stoll brothers' pranks.

Percy was crying. He knew this, he felt the tears trickle from the corners of his eyes. Since he was laying back in Emily's arms, the tears fell back to the floor instead of running down his cheeks. He didn't know why he was crying, maybe it was the emptiness he felt, the longing. All of it, all of his friends, all of the laughter and the pranks and the embraces were gone. He knew and accepted this long ago. But why did he cry?

"She's blonde," Percy croaked, "Like, _really_ blonde. Not bleached blonde but… blonde blonde. Like… like silky gold blonde."

He couldn't believe he was saying this. Percy had vowed to never so much as think about her ever again. And yet here he lay, dying, and relaying his once-loved to a nurse he barely even knew.

"She sounds beautiful," Emily smiled tearfully, "Was she funny? Cranky?"

"Both," Percy's laugh turned into a cough, "Sometimes she'd switch from one to the other so fast I'd wonder what… what I did wrong…"

The nurse nodded as she cradled the dying prince in her arms. "Can you let her go, Mr. Jackson?"

Percy wanted to, he really did. He didn't want to cling to the past, to live it and mourn over things far beyond his reach. He was hated now, hated and despised and never welcome back into his once-love's arms.

He lost that, all of it. Why couldn't he let it go? Why…?

_Because you still love her._

Percy barked a bitter laugh at the realization.

_Because you still love her. Despite all the trouble running, despite all the effort you put in trying to hate, trying to fill your feelings for her with abhorrence, you still love her. _

_You are a fool, Percy._

The helicarrier pitched and a bag slid from the table over Emily. She nurse ducked, clinging to Percy as the worn bag slid across the floor and came to a slow halt. The bag was beige and old, slightly charred. Percy Jackson knew what filled it. He thought it burned in the fire that had reduced his shack a charred pile of ash. The agents must have found it at the sight.

A chance to live.

The Exiled Prince pried Emily's hands from his shoulders and rolled from the nurse, clawing inch-by-inch toward the fallen bag.

"Jackson, please, you must stay still," the nurse rushed to him, her voice was becoming an echo. "Please, Jackson!"

With a prima growl, Percy shot out his arm and grabbed the bag. Blackness was clouding the corners of his vision, ever swallowing his consciousness, his life.

"Frank, Jason, Leo," With trembling hands he unzipped the bag, "Piper, Grover, Hazel," he thrust his hand into the charred back, "Chiron… Clarisse… Stolls…" His hands grasped something, a bottle, "Rachel… Beckondorf… Annabeth…" He rose the bottle to his lips.

"… Annabeth…" The nectar scorched his throat as he downed the entire body. The scorching sensation spread, like a greedy wildfire, consuming his body with unbelievable pain. Percy grimaced. "Annabeth…"

Then the Exiled Prince screamed, throwing his head back. Emily jumped back, startled. The fire raged within, growing, sweltering his body from the inside. Nectar was supposed to be drunk by careful sips. Percy had downed the entire bottle.

"_Annabeth!"_

The lights in the room died, the faint red glow showing through Percy's chest.

Darkness claimed. Breath stopped. The heart broke.

_Annabeth._

The Exiled Prince lay face first on the floor as he died.

Emily stumbled as the helicarrier pitched, trying to find balance on her high heels. She moaned, holding her face in her hands. _I'm going to die_. Emily grabbed the table for support and her fingers brushed against something. A pen, golden in the darkness. It shown like a star.

The nurse watched as the pen fell of the edge of the table and fell, plinking against the floor. As the airborne ship rocked in the air against the storm, the pen rolled. Until it lay against the hand of a dead man.

The dead man grunted as the alarms died. The helicarrier had lost electricity, an explosion shook the entire ship as it began to descend to the swallowing sea below.

Emily looked on in utter disbelief as Perseus Jackson stood, the golden pen grasped in his pen.

The Exiled Prince stared down at the little trinket in his hand.

And clicked the head.

From the top of that pen sprung a long, majestic sword of Greek craft, glowing bronze and bathing his face in ghostly light. He stared at the blade for a long while, and then closed his eyes.

The power struck him like a tidal wave. Percy did not stumble. No, he stood taller, stronger, and suddenly he felt it. He knew exactly were they were over the sea, the exact coordinates. Forty clicks east from Virginia Beach. He felt the sea churning below the helicarrier, aching to swallow the entire ship and crush it in her depths.

Power howled under Percy's veins, yearning to strip him of what made him human. Urging him to peel away his mortal identity, to become a wild deity all would fear. Even the gods would kneel.

_They banished you for this, the power. They grew to fear you, Percy. To hate you. They almost cowered before your shine. And yet they give it back? What threatens Olympus so direly that they would call upon forces they betrayed?_

Thunder clapped as Percy Jackson snapped open his now glowing eyes. Sea-green eyes that pulsed and churned with overwhelming power. He promptly turned to the shocked nursed.

"Can you swim?"

…

**Like it? Hate it? Well go ahead and lemme know in the comments, will ya? **

**Anyhow, if any of you find this confusing, I'd like to shed some light on the subject. Percy got his powers back because they were stripped from him and imprisoned within Riptide. So uncapping the pen made those powers flood his inner-being. Got that? Good.**


	7. Chapter 7 - A Hand to Catch

**Hello again my dear readers :D **

**I'm happy to report that chapter 6, my previous entry, received an explosion of reviews, follows and favorites. An explosion that far exceeded the likes of any other chapter! So congratulations everybody, you made a dream of mine come true! **

**Fknskfnsklfnsdklfnsl**

**So, I'm writing this while I'm **_**supposed **_**to be doing overdo school work. But, as of now, I can't knowledge.**

"_Have I offended the gods?"_

…

The number of agents within the helicarrier were quickly depleting.

Smashed skulls, overshock, fear, brain fatigue, or death-by-lightning were the reasons for the depletion of the world's most skilled ops. And now they were dying, one by one like flies.

Natasha Romanov rolled into a side room as a raging stallion _made _of a storm clouds swooshed down the corridor, lightning sparkling in its eyes and leaving wisps of dark tendrils behind it. She loaded her small yet lethal handgun and listened to the dying screams of another agent.

Natasha stood slowly and, still half crouching, maneuvered toward the door. Rather, she placed her back to wall _beside _the door. The agent rose the gun, her trigger finger itching, and listened. The silence following was painful. Other than the howling wind and the creaks all around the entire ship, there were no screams, no buzzing of electric-powered lights, no panting. Not even her own.

And then she heard it.

The snort of one of those storm spirits. Natasha Romanov was an educated woman. And she was no fool. These things had something to do with Jackson. Either they were meant to free him, or kill him. The storm stallion was just at the other side of this door, just beyond the threshold.

The stallion was sniffing. Could it smell her? Was it searching for her? The end of the spirit's snout pushed pasted the threshold and Natasha watched, breathless, as the nostrils flared, sniffing. The agent clenched the grip of her weapon, her jaw clenched, and her hand tense.

A sudden slam followed by a curse made the spirit withdraw with a snort of surprise. Natasha stood, tense, as the creature ventured down the hall in search for the intruding sound. Her shoulders heaved with relief, and she leaned against the wall, eyes closing.

"What have I done?"

Her eyes snapped back open. That was Jackson's voice, but there was something added. A deeper, albeit faint voice spoke in unison with him. She heard the horse snort. A hostile sound.

"I need to know," Jackson hissed. There were high heeled steps behind him and a small gasp.

"I_ need_ to _know_. What have I done? "Have I offended the gods?"

The stallion struck in a clap of thunder and a fatal flash of blue. Natasha held her breath within the following silence, as though the slightest sound may shatter all she has known. _Breathe_, she reminded herself, _in and out. Like a hesitant winter fox peeking from his den._

_In and out._

"Stupid horse," Muttered Percy.

Her eyes opened once again, disbelief filling her being.

"I mean, they always just run right into the sword," _Was he talking to somebody? _"I barely need to swing."

A throat was cleared, and a female voice ensued. "Ah."

"I know, I know. But I'm not bragging, I swear to the gods. I have no effort, it's like they _try _to get themselves killed." Jackson chuckled to himself as if the notion seemed ridiculous.

Natasha rolled into the hallway, whipping out her other gun, twin to the pistol in her opposite hand, and leveled them outward toward Jackson. Percy blinked and rose both his hands. Water from a cracked seam in the ceiling trickled down and into his raven-black hair, dripping from his chin after its short descent down his face. Behind him stood a young woman in a nurse's uniform, her soaked skirt clinging to her legs. Natasha was rather impressed she could walk in a slightly flooded, and quite slippery, floor while in those high heels.

The spirit was nowhere to be seen.

"You killed it," Natasha Romanov said quite frankly.

Percy Jackson grinned, "I killed it." He confirmed.

How could he even talk? The man that stood before her seemed taller, broader, _stronger._ His eyes swam and throbbed, as if each optic had an individual heart, glowing with each beat. The fact that Jackson was shirtless didn't settle the datum that he _had_ changed. His torso rippled with sculpted muscle, and Natasha could plainly see his scars. They crisscrossed over his chest, as though he'd been slashed several times over with knives and, quite possibly, swords. There were other, thicker and grizzlier scars that could have been nothing other than claw marks. Had this man wrestled with a tiger in his years?

Not four hours earlier had Natasha seen him half way to hell with two bullet holes in his back.

Natasha Romanov stood gradually, her weapons still aimed at the impossible person before her. Was he one of those flashy men from Asgard? He certainly had the looks. And, apparently, the impossibility. But he simply didn't _look _like some walking legend Thor so greatly resembled. He didn't wear the armor, he didn't have any fancy Shakespearian accent. However, despite all this, Perseus Jackson carried himself like a _god._

"Take a picture, why don't you," Percy muttered dryly, "I swear, women these days..."

Emily glanced at him sharply and the young man shrugged with his shoulders, hands still head-level. "Sorry."

"I'm going to skip asking the 'why' and the 'how' and skip to the 'who'," Natasha gripped her guns tighter, "Who in the name of God are you?"

Percy sighed and gave up his pretense that Natasha could actually pose a threat toward him and rubbed his face. "I'm sure you've got decks about my personal life."

"No," Natasha's voice shook, "Who. Are. You?"

The helicarrier pitched and Emily was thrown off balance. Only Romanov and Jackson were able to stay on their feet. Percy grabbed the nurse's upper arm to steady her. Natasha felt weightless, as if she could jump and _fly._ It was not a good feeling.

The creaking in the entire ship grew more pronounced, and Percy only confirmed Natasha's dreaded conclusion.

"We're falling," He smiled then, as if excited.

"Finally."

…

Gravity was now meaningless.

Maria Hill grasped to the railing for dear life, her eyes squeezed shut. The people around her were screaming. Some of them had already fainted from this plummet. The wind didn't whip around them, and yet they knew, _they knew_ that they were falling. And that they were going to die.

The storm outside shattered the massive windshield at the head of the bridge, sending rocket-proof glass to fall inward in a shower of flashing stars that caught the wicked glint of lightning. It was a sandstorm of glass, so horrendously did it slay. Some shards slitting throats, others tearing the body apart completely. Glass tore at Maria's skin, scraped her face, and bloodied her fingers.

She lost her grip on the railing, and she was sent flailing in the air. The agent caught herself on the roof and there she crouched before springing off. She was suspending in midair, the helicarrier moved and flipped but it held no bounds to the agent. She felt like she were free-falling, the ship encasing her didn't even need to have existed. If she could close her eyes, just close them, then she would know that she was falling. Not falling _in_ the ship, but _with_ the ship.

Maria Hill finally opened her eyes against the howling wind, wishing for goggles, and watched as the sea rapidly approached. Literally. The sea was rising to meet the crashing helicarrier, like a massive tower of tidal waves collected to form one gargantuan hand.

_Too late, _Maria mused numbly, her thoughts surprisingly clear, _the helicarrier's going to crash into pieces, even with the fall cut short._

And yet Maria Hill looked on as a legion of ribbons burst from the palm and the fingers of that incomprehensibly gigantic hand. They were like rivers streaming through the air as they coiled about the helicarrier, actually _slowing _the doomed descent by a fraction. A fraction, however, was all it needed. The large ship, meant for both sky and air, slammed into the palm of that hand and somehow held together.

One of those rivers were heading toward Maria and she realized, now that the suspended flying river was closer, that it was actually a horse made _from _the sea. The mare broke Maria Hill's fall, and her descent became almost a glide. Maria grasped to the animal's mane, squeezing its flank with her legs like one would ride a regular horse. This experience was not much different, other than the fact that _this_ particular horse was made of sea water. Maria's hair was free, she noted, as the dark brown strands whipped against her face and flowed in the wind.

The mare landed gently upon the jet runway atop of helicarrier, and the agent numbly dismounted. She took a couple of stiff steps in nowhere in particular, gazing around her in a stupor as the large hand gently receded back into the ocean with the ship safely within its palm.

Maria turned and took another step in reverse and gaped at the horse that had saved her. Its features had not been so distinct before, as most of the water that had created it was spread thin in its speed. Now the majestic mare stood tall, proud, the water of its being ever shifting, ever churning. Somehow, though undoubtedly made of water, the horse seemed… solid. She had, after all, ridden upon its back. If this mare was made of regular water she would have sunk right through it.

More horses landed upon the helicarrier, some carrying passengers, others free. All somewhat distinct. As the collected ocean water that made up the fingertips of that massive hand finally loosened and splashed against the Atlantic, a person appeared upon the runway of the helicarrier.

It was as if the very air had formed him, like the moister collecting and creating a human body. The human silhouette flashed abruptly in a split-second explosion of green before he stood there, tall, like a king.

Mist curled about his bare feet and rose from his skin as if he were steaming. Perseus Jackson rose his head and smiled goofily.

Before he laughed.

It was one pleasant, pure sound. Like a tide subsiding. Maria barely noticed. She was staring, utterly aghast, at what she saw _carved _into Jackson's back. At first glance, one could mistake the carvings in the flesh just a jumble of wicked scars. However, Maria Hill's trained eyes picked up a pattern to the marks, to the brands. It seemed like almost a verse carved into his back by hooks and knives, burned into his flesh by mule brands.

Those scars were words.

Words in Greek.

…

_It's been so long…_

Perseus Jackson grinned at his handiwork. He missed this. Not the power, certainly not the power. What Percy missed were the rescues, the action, what he _did _with his powers. How he helped people, how he saved them.

Perseus Jackson swallowed. His chest began to burn, like his heart was becoming overtaxed. He placed a hand over his chest and cleared his throat. Nausea struck so hard it made Percy stumble. He caught himself on one knee, grimacing.

The overwhelming power within that had terrified the gods themselves grew at an alarming rate, and Percy felt a savage glee. More was coming, like a mounting infection that spread and slowly enveloped his body. More was coming, more power he could call his. More was coming, and it would be all the more difficult to hold himself back from peeling away his mortal veil of flesh and show the gods what lay underneath.

Percy could see it, the world paying tribute. And he saw the seas rising to swallow the people who refused to submit to his rule. There was so much power, _so much._ And it was gnawing at him, chewing away what was left of Perseus Jackson. And a dark part of him, a small voice of poisonous words whispered to him, urging him to take it. To claim this power, and call it his own.

_Why do you think the gods banished you, Percy? _He thought, _they were wise. This power is eating you alive. How long do you think you'll last? A week? A month?_

_Long enough._

…

**By the way, have I mentioned that it's my birthday? Ahahahh, yeeaah. 'Tis true, my lovelies. The author to this fanfiction is now officially 16 years. It's funny, somewhat. How everybody expects one to mature upon reaching a certain age. One would think that adults would know more than anybody that it takes time to grow up.**


	8. Chapter 8 - Still No Escape

**And I have returned! I believe a thank you is in order.**

**Thank you.**

**Hooo, I'm glad to get that off my shoulders.**

…

**Chapter 8 – Still No Escape**

"_Offended the gods? Perseus, you terrify them."_

Perseus Jackson slurped his blue smoothie as he scrutinized the menu in his hand. Disappointment clawed deeper the further he read down the single page. This was a cafe, why wouldn't they sell blue cake? Who wouldn't _want_ blue cake? It doesn't even have to be a birthday cake despite the occasion, just any old blue form of desert would do.

Sighing, the young man slapped the menu back down on the tabletop and cradled his chin in his palm, tapping his finger on the clean surface of the table. Outside the glass walls of the café, New York was at her busiest. Dozens of pedestrians passed by the windows, some in suits, others in dresses, most in just ordinary, everyday summer clothes.

It was August 18th. Percy is now twenty-four.

A little girl pranced into the store with a jingle of the entrance bell right before her mother. Percy watched as the near identical mother and daughter chatted away.

"Mommy, can I have a coffee like you?" The little girl rocked back on her heels and sported the most adorable pleading look, her dark curls swaying.

The mother smiled, more to herself then to her child, "Abby, hon, coffee is for grownups. " She crouched down before her young daughter as Abby began to pout, "Listen, you can pick anything else here, okay? It _is _your birthday, my little girl." The young mother booped her daughter's nose with a wide smile.

Percy watched, amused, as Abby made a big show on choosing which drink she wanted, reading each name aloud and sounding out the syllables. He bowed his head and rubbed his hands together, eyes on his half-filled blue smoothie.

It had been three months since he'd been captured by SHIELD. Three months since he bent the very ocean to his will and saved three hundred lives. Three months since he started running again.

His hands were shaking.

Percy grimaced and sat up straight, shoving his hands into his jean pockets. They tended to do that, his hands. Shake with the effort to hold back some terrible, nameless force. A vehement darkness, gnawing and gnawing and gnawing away. Feasting.

"_That _one!"

Percy actually jumped in response to the volume of the proclamation. His hands flying from his pockets, he leveled a golden pen at the girl, hand shaking violently.

"Ooooh my God- I am so sorry!" The mother jerked back her daughter as she apologized profusely, her hands on the oblivious Abby's shoulders. "I'm sorry, sir, she-she can be a handful."

Percy cleared his throat and lowered his pen onto the tabletop. "Uhhh," He coughed, "Its fine. I'm sorry for threatening your kid with a, eh… a pen." He chuckled sheepishly, looking up at the young woman.

Her hair was dark and pulled back into a messy bun, some strands loose to tumble around and frame her tan, round face. She was dressed in casual summer clothes, along with her young daughter, whose eyes were still on the smoothie.

"I want _that, _mommy," the girl said, more subdued than before, yet still excited.

The young mother looked down at the blue smoothie sitting atop his table. "I don't know, Abby. It looks like it has too much coloring to be…"

_Too much coloring to be healthy. _Came Perseus' amused thought.

"I, um, special order." He lifted the drink slightly and smirked down at the little girl. "It's your birthday, isn't it?"

Abby gasped, looking at her mother, then back to Percy. "How did you know?" Her once lurid voice became a hissed whisper.

The Exiled Prince leaned in and whispered in return, conspiratorially. "You have that look in your eyes. A little twinkle."

That _and _her mother said so just a minute before. However, Percy found no heart in letting Abby in on this fact, as she was now shaking with excitement.

"Mommy, I think he's a wizard!" She hissed, tugging on the young mother's sleeve.

Percy laughed. This girl was definitely being raised the right way. So much wonder filled her eyes, an exultant curiosity that only children could cherish, and only adults could miss. The prince, he was forced to grow up at age 12, when he killed the Minotaur and humiliated Ares. He had to take on responsibilities most teenagers and adults would have nightmares over. Growing up too early, that isn't so healthy for the mind. Thankfully, Perseus had others to help him through his journey to adulthood. Leo Valdez used to joke that he was aspiring to be a professional child when he grew up. That always cracked the gang up.

"Yes, and as we all know, wizards _adore _berry-blue smoothies," The mother smoothly played along, her smile white and wide. "Come on, Abby. Let's get something blue."

The young woman lead her elated daughter back to the counter, where which they ordered a blueberry smoothie with extra coloring. From there, Abby dragged her mother back to the lone prince and filled the vacant seats. The mother was obviously anxious about her daughter adoring a stranger so, but she kept her composure nonetheless.

Percy's hands were still. He furrowed his brow, resting both his hands on the table, eyes fixated. Nothing. The evil jitters were gone, for the time being.

"So," the young woman stirred her coffee with a small plastic spoon, "Was that pen you pointed at my daughter a wand, perchance?" Her eyes twinkled mischievously.

It was then that Percy realized how pretty the mother was. The young man blinked before mentally beating his moronic brain. _She's freaking married._

No, she wasn't. No rings on her fingers. As a matter of fact, she wore no jewelry at all, not even makeup. Percy cleared his throat and took a long sip of his smoothie.

"Ehrm, yeah. Sorry about that."

"What magic can you do?" Abby had already forgotten about her drink as he stared up at the young man with the largest pair of sapphire eyes.

"Well, let's see." The Exiled Prince set down his smoothie, "I can control water however I want, talk to sea animals, and pretty much anything to do with water."

This was amusing.

More so than the woman across from him could imagine.

The blender for Abby's custom smoothie ended, and the employee dumped the contents into a medium-sized cup, sticking a straw into the foaming top.

"Interesting…" The young mother wore an expression that could easily be described as a 'thinking face'. She leaned forward in her seat, her daughter squealing as she got up to retrieve her drink.

"Mara Day," the mother smiled politely and held out here hand with an air of formality, "You're good with kids. More accurately, my kid."

"Perry Johnson."

…

"A mister Percy Jackson." Detective Robin Bullock scoffed to himself as he flipped through the bio files, skimming a highlighted sentence here and there. "Clearly the name of a hardened criminal."

"Are you questioning SHIELD Intel, detective?" Police Lieutenant Toni Bullock leaned back in the shotgun seat of the police cruiser they shared, biting deep into her Uncle Lenny's Prize Burrito, showing no restraint.

"I'm questioning the state of his mother's _sanity _when she gave him that name." Detective Bullock scoffed once again, flipping a page to narrow his keen, gray eyes on a picture.

_Tall, maybe 6-foot-2. Hair long and all wavy-like, impractical in combat situations. Guy's got some muscle, but not enough to slow him down. Still, looks as if he could lift a car, the way he carries himself. _

"No mug shots. Means they haven't caught their Percy yet." The detective flipped the next page.

"_Their _Percy?" Lieutenant Bullock spoke with her mouth full, "That doesn't sound like the man I married."

"The man you married's on duty, Lieutenant."

"And behind that shiny badge _I _have the jurisdiction to suspend said married-man." Another bite was taken after the playful jab.

Robin withdrew his nose from the files to give his wife a side-long, albeit unamused, glance. "Eat your burrito."

The Lieutenant lifted both hands and shoulders, eyes widening defensive as if to say: _What does it look like I've been doing?_

…

Percy Jackson regretted the lie as soon as it passed through his lips. _This is necessary. She is nobody. Soon, you'll be away, running._

_Always running._

"Perry Johnson, hm?" Mara took a sip of her coffee, "I know somebody named Perry. But he isn't a wonder water wizard."

The prince chuckled uncomfortably, taking an uneasy sip of his drink.

"He's a demigod."

The prince choked on his drink. Coughing, he pounded on his chest as blue spittle splattered over his chin and table-top. "Uhh…" He cleared his throat, "excuse me?"

By this time Abby was bouncing her way back to the table, her blue drink sloshing within the cup. Thankfully, there was a sealed lid. She looked like her mother, Percy noted. Her hair was also a dark brown streaked with auburn, which clashed strikingly against suntanned skin. Her eyes were a bright blue, almost a piercing sapphire.

Percy wiped his face, blinking.

"A demigod?" Mara gave the prince a funny look, "Children of the gods, highly spoken of in Greek mythology. I find them… somewhat like the primeval Avengers…" She watched as a flustered Jackson dabbed at the speckles of blue smoothie over the table with a napkin. "Lemme guess, not much of a mythology junkie?"

Abby's eyes laughed and she slurped at the straw of her drink. For once, she was quiet, finding it nice that her mother was socializing. She barely talks to any other adults.

"It looks like you are." The Exiled Prince cleared his throat, blinked, then scrambled for the home plate, "Imeantthatinagoodway."

Mara laughed, hazel eyes brimming with joyous amusement, "Oooooh, Mr. Johnson. You have one spanking history with mythology. What- did the Minotaur take your mother?"

Percy stared, his mouth a clear vacancy for any passing flies.

"That one was a quip," Mara smiled, reaching across the table and grabbing his hand, which was shaking, "Not serious… are you okay?"

"Yeah…" Percy looked down at the slender hand over his. Normally, his intuitive sense warned him of danger, but this time his sense told him that there was none. That he was safe, even. When was the last time he was safe?

And why were his hands shaking?

…

"I just don't think it's safe, this case. Look- this guy has been on the road for a widecrack of years. Probably knows his way around an' stuff." The detective looked across the street as a Dalmatian lifted a back leg to pee openly on a scarlet-red fire hydrant. His owner, a middle-aged woman, rolled back on the balls of her feet in embarrassment as tourists paused to snap photos.

"When did you _ever _care about safe, Robin?" The lieutenant had finished her burrito. Now, her eyes were on her husband.

"When did SHIELD ever drop a manhunt at contact? Intel says they had him, eh? Well it looks the other way around to me. They're scared of this guy, and I ain't gettin' involved."

…

"Mommy writes stories." Abby finished her drink with a dramatic slurp, eyes almost crossing with the sugary delight.

Mara cringed, looking over at her daughter. "Ooooh how I will regret that in an hour. Hon, for future reference, use those puppy eyes of yours to aspire me to do _good things_. Not to buy you a sea of sugar and a fate-bound future of pain, for my sake."

_She talks likes she knows her way around the English language. _

Abby stared at her mother blankly.

"No more blue smoothies," Percy clarified for her.

"Well," Mara clapped her hands together, "It was nice meeting you, Perry. But it's best we head off before we miss the bus for Manhattan. Abby and I are heading down to see some relatives."

"Hm? Oh, right." Percy stood, scooting his chair back and tossing his empty smoothie into the trash absently. His eyes were on the stunning young woman before him. Abby was standing already. "Wait, so you're a writer? An actual, professional writer?"

Mara smiled, laughing. "Goodness, no. Well, yeah. Sort of."

"YES!" Abby jumped, bumping into her mother. "But nobody wants to help with purbishing."

"Purbishing?"

"Publishing." Mara laughed again. She looked nice, laughing. Her teeth were white, and her smile was just so… so…

_Beautiful._

"You have no editors, no publishers?" The prince wasn't going to feign knowledge on the subject. His familiarities were toned on… other things.

"Well, it's complicated." Mara sighed, shrugging her shoulders, "I have editors, publishers. But they don't really like the idea of _new _ideas."

Percy blinked. "Isn't that the point of writing a story?"

"Ironic, isn't it?" The young mother smiled sardonically, ruffling her daughter's hair. "It was nice meeting you, Perry."

_Your name is Percy. Just tell her; your name is Percy!_

_Can I truly be that selfish?_

"Um, look… Mara… I…"

Two masked figures were approaching the café, the wide windows giving a clear view of the world outside. Percy's words died on his tongue. This wasn't a completely unusual sight in the streets of New York. Street performers often walked about, seeking new locations to put on a show. But these weren't street performers.

"Mara grab Abby and hide in the back of the building."

The mother blinked, "What?"

"Everyone!" Percy waved his arms, "Go! Call 911! Ca-,"

The windows shattered as a wave of death-howling projectiles came in solid impact with the barrier. Percy grabbed a baffled, elderly man and lunged over the counter, ducking behind it. Employees screamed, one fumbled for the button under the counter that would sound the silent alarm. Her palm slapped it.

"_We have come for Perseus Jackson!" _

…

"Gunfire reported down Princeton Avenue, 1132. Somebdoy sounded the silent alarm"

"That's the café." Detective Bullock turned the keys in the ignition of the police cruiser, pulling from the alleyway.

Lieutenant Toni flipped on the sirens, and on they wailed as the cruiser screeched down the road.

"Be safe." The detective said, eyes on the road, jaw clenched.

"That's too much to ask, sweetie." The lieutenant checked the straps of her bullet-proof vest. "Life's dangerous."

…

_How did they find me? Who are they?_

Percy crouched behind the counter. The employee next to him, the one who pushed the silent alarm, whimpered.

"We know you're back there, Jackson." The voice was laced with a Russian accent, "Hiding behind the bodies of innocents. Where is your honor?"

He closed his eyes. Hands shaking, he squeezed them shut. He couldn't let the power out. He vowed never to use it, never to give in. Never to indulge.

Sirens. They were calling in the background, ever approaching the scene. They would not make it in time.

"We intend to have you _before _the ignorant enforcers decide to trash our mission."

Gunfire relayed.

Employees and civilians alike screamed as the contents upon the counter was torn to shreds by dozens, if not hundreds, of bullets.

_Let me out._

The world blurred. It was like a veil of haze descended upon the world around him. Everything, every person, every shard of glass, every shred of shrapnel, every infinitesimal molecule simply _slowed._

_Let me out, Perseus._

The Exiled Prince stood, slowly turning to face… _it. _And _it _was terrible.

The two gunmen stood there a few feet apart, legs outspread as their assault rifles were caught mid-blaze. Percy saw everything as they slowed. Froze. Remained in absence of movement.

Between the two gunmen stood a being, a mere figure in the shape of a slender man. This black enigma stood, tall and lithe, and somehow, even without a face, Percy knew this darkness was staring directly at _him, _right into his eyes.

_You can save them with my help. Nobody has to die. Just let me out, let me breathe._

Its voice was a thousand resounded voices, male and female, elderly and young. It was as though the dead were speaking to him in perfection symmetry.

"You're killing me." His hands clenched into fists.

_Time is killing everything. You do not fear death, you welcome it, Perseus._

Before, back in the helicarrier, Percy had welcomed the power that had returned to him. But soon, after a few days, he realized that this power, this force, was attached to it.

_Turn around._

Percy did so.

Behind him, a ways across the area behind the counter and where the store led back into the storage area, a little girl was peaking around the threshold. Her innocent, sapphire eyes were wide and frightful, fixated upon the attackers. Her mother was trying to pull her back. She was bleeding; streaks of blood ran down the side of her face. She had been hit badly by some shrapnel.

"Abby, Mara."

_You can save them. _

"They don't deserve this..."

_But only with my help._

"… I do."

The Exiled Prince spun back around to face the dark anomaly, and somehow, looking into that infinitely black hole of a face, he knew this thing was smiling.

_This is who you are, Perseus. Do not fight it. You are a maelstrom, a storm, an exploding nebula, a dying star. Do not resist that of which defines you. _

Percy's trembling, twitching fingers stilled. The world around him was speeding back up. With a snarl, the black thing darted forth, rushing into the prince's chest.

The gunfire stopped. Both men lowered their guns as they spied their target.

"We knew you would come around."

"_You_…" The prince's breathing became hyped with adrenaline. He could feel the water under the building, churning and boiling with his presence. His sea-green eyes burned a violet hue, filled to the very brim with rage. _"I have a bone to pick with you."_

…

The blazing sirens of the police cruiser wailed as the vehicle swung around the corner. Traffic was thick, though some cars did their best to pull over to make way.

Robin Bullock cursed, opening his door, his hand grasping his sidearm. Toni was on his heels as they both stepped onto the sidewalk, dashing. The café was only a few blocks away.

Both officers ducked on instinct as the report of an assault rifle split eardrums, and the shattering of a car's windows ensued. The woman inside was a definite fatality. Toni and Robin Bullock took cover behind the damaged car, the detective shouting into his radio.

"There's more of them!" Toni peaked over the hood of the car.

"Backup needed on Princeton Avenue! Come in hot, unknown number of hostiles!"

Shots were traded.

Robin could see the café from where they took cover. He could see the damage within the small building. A possible hostage situation? SWAT might need to get their hands dirty in this one.

…

As soon as his finger squeezed the trigger, assault rifle aimed at Jackson, Yuri knew that he had screwed up.

HYDRA Intelligence had specifically told him that directly affronting the man would be his biggest mistake. Cheers to ambition, one would suppose.

Perseus vanished. Rather, he melted into a puddle of water, and said puddle of water shot forth like a hurtling missile and slammed directly into the Russian mercenary, shattering bones. Yuri slammed into the opposite wall, slumping to the floor, coughing blood.

Before the second mercenary could recover from witnessing his partner's demise, the puddle swiped his feet from under him. The masked Russian groaned as his temple promptly struck the floor. Vision blurring, he rolled aside just as the assailing puddle of violent water slammed into the ground just where he had been laying, cracking the marble.

Percy Jackson grew back into his human form, glaring down at the dumbfounded man on the ground before him. Outside, more gunfire was heard. Shouting, cursing, the shattering of glass and life.

"Tell your friends," The Exiled Prince grasped the man by his bullet proof vest and hoisted him up with ease, toes barely scraping the floor, "I'm not interested in a visit."

He then tossed the man up so that he slammed into the ceiling, before falling back down limply to the ground, motionless.

The prince turned around, and faced the little girl standing alone amidst the destruction of what was the café. She looked upon him with awe, a tall and powerful man, his eyes blazing with an unnamed force the beckoned undeterminable rage. Unfathomable depths.

Mara was on the ground, unconscious. This was best. If she were to babble to the authorities, she might have been taken to a psychiatric ward, or to some dark room for questioning, further more putting those hunting him in more danger.

…

People ran and screamed.

There were eight other gunmen in all defending the café. Even 5 minute into this intense gunfight, Detective bullock still couldn't tell if they were dealing with a hostage situation. Their assailants were trained killers, mercenaries. They had already downed two brave officers, provoking the NYPD's wrath.

Princeton Avenue was a battleground. Plumes of smoke billowed from upturned cars. Other vehicles were on fire, shattering glass and debris littered the ground, including the occasional body of an innocent. Things haven't been this bad since that attempted alien invasion… and the collateral damage had been tempered by the Avengers. Where were the Avengers now? On vacation?

A fire hydrant exploded, followed by another a few blocks down from the other.

Towers of water climbed into the smoking air, and all gunfire ceased. A speechlessness overcame Princeton Avenue, a dreaded awe as the impossible played into effect.

"What in the…" Robin Bullock let the radio slip form his fingers, the gadget clattering to the ground.

"Am I on drugs?" His wife murmured, "Tell me I'm on drugs."

The gunmen began to run as the towers of water formed into twin hands, and one unfortunate mercenary found his life come to an abrupt halt as those two enormous hands clapped together, with him in between.

The water gushed down Princeton Avenue, lifting cars and easily taking four of the gunmen with it in a gripping tide that promised punishment. The remaining four open-fired on the man that stepped outside the café. The man leapt aside, and what Detective Bullock say next defied his perception of reality.

A ball of water gathered before the man's hand, freezing into an icy sphere which shot forth with the force of cannon-fire, smashing into the masked face of one of the gunmen, and snapping the assailer's neck as he fell back off the car. Another gunman was thrown into the air as the porthole he stood upon was forced to explode skyward as the sewage burst from below, dousing everything in fetid misery. What was left of the criminal attack force lay in bits and pieces among the pavement, spitting crap and garbage.

Eyes met.

Leaning against the car with which he had been using as cover, Detective Robin Bullock's eyes met the man's, and his vision funneled. Out of all the bio files Bullock had read of the man, Intel had left out the crucial fact that Percy Jackson was _superhuman. _

And just like that, the fugitive was gone, vanished in a cloud of vapor.

…

What made the front page of the paper the next day was a group of six grumpy criminals, all handcuffed in the back of a police truck, their hair and outfits sticky with who-knows-what.

_**Three Dead in Terrorist Attack**_

_10 Russian terrorists with unknown intentions found hard (and putrid) justice as an unknown man, as witnesses' state, __**bent **__water itself to flood Princeton Avenue, a humble district boasting some of the finest shops and cafes that could be found in New York…_

Mara tore her eyes from the newspaper as she watched her sedated daughter sleep soundlessly on the hospital bed. She hadn't witnessed this man who could bend water. She had been too busy unconscious. Guilt stung. She was supposed to be protecting her daughter, not fainting in the face of danger.

The young mother remembered the men with guns, with masks. Their harsh voices, their violent means to getting what they came for. _Who _they came for.

"_We have come for Perseus Jackson!"_

Her last memory before blacking out was Perry, watching her with wild eyes as he huddled behind the counter. The strangest thing was that he wasn't afraid, he was worried. Mara had asked around for the man after regaining consciousness on the gurney that was pushed into an ambulance, but nobody had seen him.

Where had he gone? Was he okay? His name wasn't on the casualty list, which was a relief. But… where could he passible be?

"I'm sorry this had to happen on your birthday," Mara whispered, taking her sleeping daughter's hand in her own.

The doctors had confirmed that Abby _would _live with minor injuries. Mara, however, had suffered worse. She felt with her fingertips the stitching that sealed the wound on her forehead. A fatal wound if it had remained open for any longer. The doctors had worked swiftly and efficiently, thank God. Abby was already without a father in her life, if she were to go on without a mother…

No. She would not think of that. Not now.

_Be thankful that you lived. _

…

"_Get out of me!"_

Percy screamed, throwing himself against the alley's brick wall, clawing at his head. "Get out!"

_We are one now, Perseus._

The Exiled Prince felt that his insides were burning with hellfire, melting away who he is, his identity.

_You cannot pretend to be human. You were always destined to be more._

Screams. A thousand voices within his head, all screaming with torment as the fires ate them, devoured them, consumed them.

_You are my salvation, Perseus. And for that I thank you._

"You are killing me!" The prince scraped that the walls, the tips of his fingers bloodied with his manic efforts.

_I am not. _

Percy's eyes burst into blazing green flames, his mouth opening to reflect his torment.

_I am shedding your mortal flesh._

…

**Oh my.**

**Dear me.**

**This seems rather sinister.**

**And wow, over a hundred-thousand views. I am one lucky guy.**


	9. Days of Madness, Nights of Fear

**(**** s****) – You know, I have an eccentric route of perception concerning how others think. I always perceive that what I see is that what is, so when you said that you read my story seven times over, I had to blink a few times to comprehend that. Usually, I absently think that only those who've commented are the ones who actually read my book. Funny, huh? Well, I'm glad I finally got to meet you. :) And I'm glad you're enjoying the story so far. Thank you for the kind words.**

**Oh**

**AND HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY.**

**(ChibiMistress) – Okay, I enjoyed myself immensely reading your comment, good miss. I do see that as a comical way of how the Avengers would react if they were to observe Percy's carnation. Thank you for bringin' the smiles to my old face. X)**

**(JPC) – I have just started reading that series! :D Skullduggery Pleasant. Though I have no idea who you're talking about, I do believe this Valkyrie Cain is quite the interesting fella.**

…

"_It holds me like a vice! Surely, you won't forsake me, Hestia!"_

The goddess of the moon gazed upon her namesake.

Shining proud and full in the sky, the moon brought light to the night that fell over the city of Olympus. Silver eyes examined every crater of the moon that rose, every crevice. She knew the moon more than any, but what rose that a lie.

"Brooding, sis?"

Footsteps ensued, relaxed and clomping. Artemis closed her silver hues and turned to face her brother.

"Go away, Apollo."

The sun god stood before her in a simple red T-shirt and jeans, trekking boots cladding his feet. He wore glasses, tinted dark, and in his hand was a cane which tapped the ground before him in a rhythmic beat. His smile was small, knowing. Sad.

"You know, sometimes I wish I could see you again."

"You're lying."

"I'm the god of truth, sis. I don't lie." He reached out his hand as he stepped closer, smile growing wider. "Hey, come here."

Artemis swallowed. She looked back at the moon. That gleaming chariot. No answer came.

"Sister, come on here." He stepped forward again, Apollo, his fingers reaching not but air. "Arty?"

Eyes closed, Artemis refused to look upon her brother, fists clenching so tight that her nails drew forth golden ichor from the heels of her hands. The moon was so beautiful. Why do lies have to be so beautiful?

"Artemis, please. I can't see you." His voice became halting, "I-I can't see you."

Choking on a sob, the maiden goddess flung around and threw herself into her twin's arms. She clung to him, eyes squeezed shut.

"Hey, heeeey," Apollo held her tightly, choking up, "It's alright, Arty." He held the back of her head, rubbing her back. "Hey, it's alright."

"_Stop saying that!"_

She pulled back and punched her brother. Apollo reeled, his glasses clattering to the floor as he stumbled away, holding his face. "Gods, Artemis!"

"Why do you have to be such an accursed optimist?! You're _blind_, I'm _cursed_. Dad is as distant as ever and the war? _My hunt was massacred before my eyes. _I lost one Lieutenant before, _ONE. _But now the daughter of our father? _Our own sister?_" Artemis screamed at Apollo, "We are supposed to be _gods, _brother. But we are losing things like the mortals that walk thousands of miles below us in a world that has no inkling we even exist!"

Apollo scrambled on the floor at her feet, hands trembling as he searched in a futile attempt to recover his glasses.

"_Why can't he forgive us?" _Artemis shrieked, kicking at the air.

Chuckling ensued from her brother. A bitter, cold chuckle that was very much unlike the sun god. Putting those tinted glasses back over his eyes, Apollo stood with his cane. "How could you expect him to? We betrayed him."

"We vouched against his exile! But we should have done more than just vouch for him! We should have- should have-…"

"What, betray our own family?" Apollo leaned on his cane, shaking his head.

Artemis scoffed. "This doesn't feel like a family." She muttered.

"It's the only one we have."

"Perseus was family too…" Artemis sat on the ground in a heap, crossing her arms.

The two of them stood upon Artemis' silver temple, overlooking the spread of Greek architecture that made the grand city of Olympus. From this view, none could tell that the Olympians were drowning in war.

Artemis and Apollo were but the first to suffer.

…

Sheer whiteness.

Percy was surrounded by sheer whiteness. It was an emptiness that surpassed that of the devouring black hole, the eerie black caves that tempt the heart of an adventurous spirit, and the yawning spaces between the stars.

This blank whiteness was blinding, burning, and it was nothing.

_Hello? _

Percy thought he spoke, but his words were lost into this… this nothingness that burned and blinded and broke.

_Hello?!_

This time he screamed, but he did not hear his words. They were lost, just as he. Devoured into this terrible, terrible prison.

There was no wind, just utter stillness. There was no water, just utter dryness. There was no anything. Rather, the absence of such, and it drove this man mad. And in his madness, he withstood the oncoming torment. Not one living soul was meant to live in the absence of all things. Tartarus was meant for the living, and so, though barely, through which Percy lived. This was not a punishment. This was not a reward. It was as it just is, a burning simplicity.

If there was only something to write on, something scratch something else into to practice his mind. To _remain active. _But there wasn't. It felt like years had passed. Percy spent his hours, his days, weeks, months, _years _running. Maybe this madness had an edge, beyond which he could fall into eternity, and maybe hit his head on something so that he would be free from this torment.

But he knew that his efforts were futile. There was no horizon. This whiteness was endless, truly, ruthlessly endless. Oh, as these years passed buy, Percy begged for so many things. He begged for some sort of sensation to whoever might be listening. He tried slamming his hands against the platform he felt his feet pressing upon, but was greeted with naught but the dryly accepted nothing.

_Let me die! Let me die! Let. Me. Die!_

In these years, this millennia, Percy Jackson was lost.

…

"_I. Am. Free."_

Blurred vision cleared. What was that sound? Roaring? The cry of machines? They were constant, passing and returning to pass again in an endless cycle that seemed not to slow. What was that light? Such a lantern in the sky to shine so, a day star to burn life into this dying world. What was this pain? Knees scraping against the harsh ground, hands upon said ground and digging into shattered fragments of… of… what was this again?

Ah yes, this was glass. He remembered glass.

_What is this red ooze that is drawn from my wounds?_

Ah yes, blood. Oh, how he missed blood!

What was that sound? _Move your sight_. _Do you not remember to move your very own eyes_?

_Forgive me, for I haven't found the need in such a long while. _

That sound… what a shrill, abrupt breach of noise! However faint, constantly present. It comes from the creature beyond that odd… odd… _food?_

Rats. He remembered that he did not miss the rats.

Muscles move. Such strength! _Move your eyes down to your hands_. He did so. _Open them. Open your hands. _

And he did so.

What followed next was laughter. It crept out from deep within the lungs, and they tore into the air as a string of madness was struck. Manic laughter.

Hands grab the startled… the startled creature. The rat.

_Break it_! _Hurt it! Kill it!_

_Kill it now. _

Again and again was the small, grungy animal slammed into the wall, its little bones breaking, snapping, shattering. It was dead long before the laughter stopped, long before he ceased to breaking it against the wall.

More blood. It was coming from the rat_. _

_Hold this prize of war! Hold it in your hand and feel triumph! Feel joy!_

_You are free!_

…

Tony woke with a start.

His breaths came in short, air-hungry gasps as he sat up in the bed he shared with Pepper. He felt the place on his chest were the miniaturized arc reactor sustained his life had once been. Truth be told, crazy an idea as it is, he kinda missed the glowing heart thing.

"Dreaming of portals again?" Came Pepper's murmured words, "Thought we were passed that."

Tony glanced down at his girlfriend, and shared a little amused huff. "No portals this time," with a grunt, he slid out of bed, "Promise on my dad's grave."

"Let's not go there." She nuzzled her head farther into the soft pillow, sighing.

A comfortable silence ensued. Tony considered lying back down under the covers, next to his beloved, and close his eyes again to greet the dreams that may await him. He had no recollection of what he dreamed. Just an impression.

Mad terror.

It clung to him like a cold vice. And so Tony was afraid.

He glanced back again. Pepper was asleep, and was not disturbed while he spoke.

"Jarvis, lock this place down."

"_May I ask why, sir?" _The voice was pleasant, belonging to a brit.

"Just have a feeling. Lemme know if anybody gets close."

"_Yes sir."_

"Atta good butler."

And so Tony laid his head back down upon the pillow, and slept.

That impression of insane fear, of _mad terror_, never went away.

…

**I know, I know. It's sorta depressing, and it goes nowhere plot-wise. Truthfully, I just needed to daddle with some ideas surfing around in my head. While I gather for a **_**real **_**next chapter, I have some questions that could occupy your lovely brains. **

**Where could Percy be? Is it a prison? Some consciousness? Of course, **_**I **_**already know, but I wanna see what y'all come up with.**

**What's up with this thing that killed the rat? It seems that he switched places with Percy. It seems that he hasn't felt, heard, or **_**seen**_** anything in a pocket of eternity. No wonder he's insane. **

**But no fear, he'll pull himself together. The best villains always do. **

**Anyways, I apologize if you feel that I wasted your time. As I said, just fooling around. **

**Anyhow, love you guys. See ya again soon. **

**PS – College courses starting again soon *pukes* oh why. Why sweet merciful universe? I was happy during this break! Watchin' anime, enjoying absolutely no work, getting cool things like privacy and space. It was awesome! But now... *Devil horns grow* I have to **_**converse! **_**To… to… **_**socialize. **_** *drools fire* **

**Just do me a favor and kill me already. **

**I'd appreciate it. **


	10. Chapter 9 - Lost Gods

**I know there are a lot of time-jumps in this story, but considering how little I update and how fast all these amazing Marvel movies are coming out… man. I don't know about you all, but I **_**loved **_**Age of Ultron, although it did have its nitpicks. And Ant-Man made me so freaking happy, especially during the fight against the Falcon. I'm going to see **_**Captain America: Civil War**_** this week at the premier , I will probably be jumping my story ahead once again past that timeline.**

**I'm sorry, I just can't run my stories through the events of actual movies. I feel like I must respect those movies, and not trash them in any way. **

**Disclaimer: -**

...

_"We have no choice, Perseus. You are not what you once were."_

The interior of the Quinjet hummed smoothly. Captain America leaned back against the dashboard and gazed down at the hauntingly silent Wanda Maximoff, and what she held in her slender, pale hand.

It was a photograph, worn and torn, yellowing at the edges. Beside Wanda, standing tall and still, was the Vision, whose animatronic irises closely examined the photo his partner held gingerly. His brow quirked inquisitively, but before he could part his scarlet lips to ask, Wanda spoke.

"My family, yes."

Steve Rogers lowered his head a bit, offering the two as much privacy as he could provide in the somewhat cramped space of the Avenger's once-SHIELD-owned ship. He leaned slightly to the side to ask the pilot, Colonel Rhodes, how much longer would it take to reach the check point.

The Vision, with an unnervingly humane expression, pursed his lips, "While I am not all that acquainted with human law and how to abide to it, I am quite sure breeching the mind without a forewarning is among the numerous taboos, Ms. Maximoff."

Rather than answering, Wanda touched her fingers to the mildly frayed parchment with the softness one might use against the feathers of a bird. A couple, faces aglow with pride and private success, with a daughter in the lap of the father, and a little son in the lap of the mother.

"Avengers," Steve Rogers stepped out from the cockpit archway and into the small jet's antechamber. "We're five minutes out. Time to breif you who we're up against."

It had been nearly a year since Steve has heard from the infamous Percy Jackson. Since his last notice in the paper about a terrorist attack fiasco of some sort. But before Rogers could delve any further in the investigation… he found Bucky. SHIELD collapsed with HYDRA in her wake, the personal manhunt with for Bucky Barnes had begun… and then later that year, Thor returned from Asgard with the proposition of hunting down the remnants of HYDRA with the adjoined forces of the Avengers.

Following with much chaos, a falling city, Ultron, and the death of a good (and evidentially speedy) young man, Captain America told himself it was time to live up to his title as "Captain", and train the fresh recruits. Which consisted of War Machine, The Vision, Sam Wilson (or the Falcon) and Wanda Maximoff (or as the general public like to call her, the Scarlet Witch).

"Well, Steve?" Sam Wilson had set down his thin, paperback novel (something about aerodynamics) and stood, rotating his shoulders and adjusting the red-tinted goggles on his forehead. "Don't tell me we flew over the Atlantic and over a dozen countries to stop a robbery."

"You're worried," Wanda stated, green eyes narrowed as she closely scrutinized her captain.

Steve held her gaze for an instant before hooking his thumbs in his belt. "Colonel Rhodes, suit up."

"I got you," Rhodes switched the Quinjet to autopilot and slipped from his seat, making his way past cap and the others to where his suit stood dormant on century mode.

"The threat we're facing is a phantom," Captain America started, looking to each Avenger in turn, "We have witness reports of manslaughter, mass murder, slave driving, and a multitude of hostage situations. Unfortunately, we don't have a definite visual on the target. But we have a name," he grimaced, "a codename."

"Which helps us plenty," Wanda leaned back in her seat, eyes glinting sardonically.

The Vision looked at her in mild misperception, "No it doesn't."

"Sarcasm, look it up, bot boy," War Machine smirked.

The Vision evidentially took Rhodes' statement literally, and his eyes whirred as he delved into Wikipedia. "Ahh," said The Vision, "I see now."

"_Chaos," _Steve Rogers rose his voice in finality, "He calls himself Chaos. And from what we can tell, he lives up to the name."

"Grand larceny, mass genocide…" Sam Wilson began strapping on his wings, "There's no way am I letting this guy walk away from this one."

"Avengers," Captain America set his jaw and rose his arm, flexing his forearm. From where it sat resting against the wall, his shield sprang up and fixed itself to Steve's arm in firm magnetism. "Give him Hell."

…

The Alexandria Library, a circular, slanting building of modern architect, was quite the sight to behold. But the Avengers hadn't come to sight see.

But Wanda couldn't help herself.

Arms locked firmly around War Machine, they swooped low over the building before alighting upon the slanted roof. Wanda pressed her hands to the glass and peered through the roof, examining the situation below. Rhodes stayed stationary in the air; the weight of his suit would surely shatter the glass.

"Local enforcement has locked a perimeter two blocks all around. Wilson, Vision, status." Cap said.

"We're going through the front door." The Vision said.

"_You _are," Falcon said, "Literally. Open the door from your side, bot boy."

Wanda ducked low at the distant chatter of full-auto AK-47s. War Machine's head turned toward the noise.

"We're under fire!" Falcon shouted in the comm, "We got four bogies heavily armed in the front."

"I've told local enforcement to give us breathing room," Captain said, "Maximoff, Rhodes?"

"I see him," Wanda said. And she did.

The interior of the library was a wooden beauty. Gorgeous craftsmanship, with exquisitely relaxing lighting. But that wasn't what drew the witch's attention. It was the tall dark man with the sword.

He stood towering over librarians and civilians who kneeled on the floor, fingers laced behind their heads. Even his men, who prodded the hostages with the ends of their rifles, were short in comparison to their leader.

Normally, in this modern age, a man sighted with an old Greek style bronze sword was be considered a truly bizarre sight. But this man held himself in such a manner that he looked natural, nearly regal, with that sword, in his dark long wool coat leather gloves and boots. His tousled raven-black hair and chiseled, tan face gave off the impression of exquisitely masculine, almost inhuman, handsomeness.

But those eyes… they were green and they blazed with a mad, incomprehensible power. Wanda's breath left her, and she lay there, her own green eyes fixated upon the terrible man and his terrible beauty.

"Maximoff, repeat, did you just confirm visual on the target?" Steve Roger's voice buzzed in her ear, but all she could muster was a ginger nod.

Rhodes sighed, "This is Rhodes, answering _for _Maximoff. We _have _located the target, I am running a visual recognition as we speak…"

"Can you make it run any faster?" Falcon asked, his submachine gun rattling from his end.

"Hey, calm your tits, Wilson," Rhodes snapped, "I don't exactly have Stark's Jarvis in here." He knocked his knuckles against the side of his head. "And we've got bot boy to blame for… _here we go. _Our Chaos, as told by my very own suit computer, is a mister Percy Jackson. Huh, strange. There's no murder and larceny in his resume, even though it _is _pretty damn thi-,"

"_Repeat yourself, Rhodes." _Steve snapped, "Did you say _Percy Jackson?_"

"Um, yes?" Rhodes answered, uncertain.

"_Get out of there, Rhodes, Wanda._" Steve was yelling, "Get the _hell _out of there!"

"Cap, what'chu going on abou… ohoooh no."

"Oh no?"

"Wanda."

"Maximoff? What about her?"

"She's _gone._"

She had indeed gone. Using every ounce of skill and will she had built up through her relentless hours of psychological and physical training, she had released her witchcraft powers into her mind and veins, phasing effortlessly through the glass like The Vision. Her aura aglow with warping scarlet energies, Wanda drifted down from the ceiling, still unnoticed by the terrorists as they rummaged through stacks of books.

Chaos, or Percy Jackson, or _whoever _he may be, stood overlooking their efforts with a disgusted scowl. "The parchment was discovered in a bloody _pyramid tomb_," he was saying, "You will not just find it on any old wood shelf. Look. Harder."

"_Wanda." _Captain's voice buzzed in her ear as her leather boots gently touched the carpeted floor. She lowered herself into a crouch, peaking discreetly over as the terrorists sorted through shelves of books. The hostages huddled together, trying their best not to whimper. One of them was murmuring a prayer in Arabic. "You _have _to get out of there. You don't know what you're walking into. _Wanda!" _

Chaos paced back and forth like a prowling wildcat, his blazing green eyes sweeping over the library. "Death," he said softly to himself, "Tethers of life split by Atropos herself. What glee she must feel to end the suffering of countless lives every minute of every day." He looked to his men, "Stop. We have company. Calvary has arrived, and they will recognize my…" he smiled unnervingly, "Shell."

Wanda closed her eyes and opened her mind to him.

An everlasting expanse of stars and all of the dark spaces between those stars greeted her. Lost cosmoses, erupting nebuli, dying planets, fires over countless realms. It was almost too much for the mortal mind to comprehend, but Wanda did not stop there. Foolishly, she dug deeper still, peeling away at the layers of iron that this man, this fallen deity, had arisen to ward off invaders such as herself. And so she saw him. A lone figure in a world of white. Standing, looking right back at her with wide, troubled eyes.

"_I see you," _Perseus Jackson said, his voice cracking as though he hadn't spoken in a millennia. "_But I can't save from him_."

"I see you," smiled Chaos, "And he's right. He can't."

Wanda coalesced her scarlet energies just in time to deflect Chaos' terribly powerful blow of his sword. The impact itself sent the witch stumbling backwards, but as she did so, she spread her fingers wide and unleashed a rippling stream of red power. Chaos grunted in disturbance as the energy washed over him, but his hideous smile returned. "A mortal with such power! But drawn from what source? Your powers of not of this world, Wanda Maximoff."

_He knows my name. _

The Scarlet Witch unleashed yet another supernatural wave of power upon her assailant, and this time it sent him reeling into a shelf. Books fell, and one particularly thick volume slammed into his head. Chaos was unfazed, and he watched on as his men rose their weapons and open fired on the intruder.

Wanda dove for cover, sleek steel projectiles shredding paper and wood alike as they sought to bury deep into the youngest Avenger. Panting with fear and strain, Wanda curled up into the fetal position and her ever present powers formed a protective dome over her person. Bullets ricocheted off her firmly set shield of glowing red.

Chaos looked on, deftly switching hands with his blade as his men surrounded Scarlet Witch, inching ever closer as they gradually reached to the conclusion that they had her trapped.

"Fools," her muttered.

Fallen books, all encased in red glow, rose from where they lay on the floor and, by the hundreds, slammed in unison against the four terrorist men. Noses and fingers broke and the men were buried under a mound of romance novels, history volumes, and Bibles of every language known to man.

The Scarlet Witch let loose an earth-rocking shockwave of pure force, blowing everything in every direction. But Chaos was ready, the blast barely tilting him where he stood, high and imposing.

"You mistake me for… for…" Chaos wrinkled Percy's face, "I don't even know what you are. Larvae? I've been trying to find the proper name. You call yourselves man. Human, mortal, domineering man. But you are just dust and nothing but… dear me, I'm monologuing, aren't I?"

Wanda lifted her hands and, with her will, toppled a shelf.

She didn't even see him move.

Chaos was behind her within an instant. She could feel the smile on his breath that tickled her ear, and she was still as stone as his burning hot hand came to rest almost fondly upon her shoulder. "You saw it, didn't you? The endlessness in my mind, my soul. You know what I am."

"No," Wanda said, "I don't."

"Humor me."

"Get off me," Wanda said. Her voice shook.

Chaos leaned forward, and Percy's lips nearly brushed her ear as he whispered again. "A lost angel? A fallen star? Is that what I am?"

"Wanda? Wanda what's going on?" Captain America's voice came to her through the commlink.

"_Diabol_," Wanda said at last, "Devil."

The following chuckle coaxed the chills that rained down her spine. "Accurate, I suppose. It's time to snap your tether, Wanda Maxim-,"

The shattering of glass interrupted the devil, and Wanda sent a pulse of power through her and into Chaos, petrifying him where he stood. She then rolled away, giving War Machine a clear shot. The auto turret on his shoulder locked on Chaos' frame, and the barrel blazed.

Those bullets reached their target.

They shattered and split into metallic dust, to fall and drift away.

Rhodes was speechless for a mild moment. "Okay, _what_?"

"'And the boy's little tin soldier toppled from the table…'" Chaos' grin was wicked, and again Wanda witnessed the wild energies within those horrible eyes. Old, primordial, and utterly profound.

War Machine dropped from the air and landed before this deity without a hint of what Wanda had seen, smashing his fist in Chaos' gut. He followed with a vicious haymaker and a knee to the jaw, and Chaos took the punishment without so much as a grunt.

When Rhodes swung again with his arm, Chaos caught it in his hand with little effort, and the metal bent and groaned under his fingers. "It seems that my search here has been fruitless, but at least allow me to pick a most succulent apple."

A blur. The gleaming bronze sword flashed, cutting the reinforced armor like rivers through earth; with unmatched might and inevitability. Rhodes earned a deep slash on his thigh, but before he could react to that…

_Shnk! _

War Machine was released, and he stumbled back in shock, holding his arm. His visor slid up so his stunned and dazed eyes could gaze upon the stump where his hand had once been.

"Christ…" Rhodes muttered, and it seemed that he had breathed that word out in earnest as Chaos stepped forth to behead him with the sword.

He never got the chance.

Hands outstretched and jaw clenched, Wanda held out both her hands in a willful effort to keep Chaos' sword at bay, and before the dark god could break her bonds, a flying shield slammed into his side, and this time Chaos was truly flabbergasted.

He toppled, but righted himself imminently, a scowl twisting his godly features.

"Maximoff, see to the hostages. Sam, Rhodes needs medical attention."

"Way ahead of you, cap," The Falcon swooped down to the fallen War Machine, who knelt there holding his bloodless stump.

But before he could reach him, Chaos intercepted, slashing his sword out and forcing Sam Wilson do careen aside in the air putting all his aerodynamic skills to work. But the tip of his sword _did _pierce the Falcon's boot and blood spurted. Sam cursed his way through the pain, pulling away to a safe distance.

Leveling the small turret on his gauntlet, the Falcon unleashed a flurry of bullets on the deity, whose features became liquid and clear until he was a man entirely made of water, the small bullets becoming harmless little trinkets.

Almost father-like, Chaos lowered his sword and rested his hand upon Rhodes' armored shoulder, who shuddered at the impact as though he could feel it.

"What are you _doing, _Jackson?" Steve Rogers was tense, his eyes on the deity.

"You thought you knew what Jackson was," smiled Chaos, gently. "He was a vessel. The only one that could truly bear _me._"

Wanda had finished sending the mental and irresistible command to the hostages, telling them to exist the building calmly. "Stay away from him," she cried out to her captain as he stepped nearer, "He's-… he is-,"

"Dangerous, I know," Steve Rogers said, eyes on Chaos.

"I am not Jackson," Jackson's face smiled, "Unlike him… I show…" He raised his hand, and while all witnessing Avengers stepped back to defend themselves against the frightening force they so expected, what rather occurred was stunning on an incalculable level. "… Mercy."

Rhodes' hand was replaced with an entirely new and fresh organism, with five appendages. The only thing wrong and unholy about his new hand, however, that it was not made from the flesh of man, but some silvery black substance, cold and almost lifeless.

He flexes his new fingers. "Oh God," he breathed, then fell forward, consciousness fleeing.

"Ayo-ma kluthos rhash a-lythvatha," Chaos spoke in words no human could possibly understand, for the tongue was unknown to man, to the gods in the skies and the warrior entities in their golden city. "That is my name, protectors of Midgard."

He rose his hands. All Avengers backed away as the earth began to tremble, the whole Alexandria Library shaking with an unseen might.

"This goes against all logical standards," the Vision said in the commlink, "but the Alexandiran Library's lake is… rising."

"EVERYBODY OUT!" Steve Rogers waved his arm, rushing passed Chaos and grabbing Rhodes' under his arm. Grunting, he hoisted the War Machine with noticeable strain. His wings folding, Sam Wilson landed on the other side of Colonel Rhodes to aid his captain.

"Wanda, we need help here!"

The roar of the rising lake must have been too much for her to hear, Captain America thought, as she stood still, staring at Chaos in a dazed manner. "Maximoff! _Wanda!" _

She blinked, looking to her captain, then back at the deity who stood with no comprehension to what was around him, his arms upheld like he was beholding some wondrous gift.

Without her captain's consent, Wanda Maximoff broke into a dash for Chaos. Steve Rogers called after her, but she took no heed as a shelf fell over, threatening to crush her. Giving it little notice, Wanda merely reached out for the shelf and, in a flash of red, it blew away to crash in the opposite direction.

She reached the dark god, and the power she felt in his wake was almost unbearable. Crying out to the God she knew in her native language, the Scarlet Witch flung forth her hands and clasped them over Chaos's head, her thumbs digging into his temples.

She breeched his mind just as the glass ceiling shattered and the water came down to crash upon them all.

…

The abyss was simply an expanse of everlasting whiteness, so bright that it nearly burned her eyes, and so utterly _blank _that Wanda's mind began to ache with the sheer abnormality of it.

A man sat in the blank emptiness, knees pulled up to his chest, head bowed. Wanda, arms wide like she was trying to balance herself as she walked, gradually made her way to the slight figure that was Perseus Jackson.

Wanda was close, but she did not know how close. Measurement was an impossibility, but what she did know that she could touch him. And so she did.

He moved in a blur.

Before Wanda could react, his hand had clamped down on her wrist in a vice-like grip of something far stronger than iron. She tried to pull away, to part herself from this lost god, for the power emanating from him was just as potent and blinding as Chaos.

Percy Jackson rose his head.

His eyes were smooth, ebony river stones. Gleaming, and yet with no irises or whites. He was crying. Tears leaked out form under those black orbs, running down his cheeks and dripping from his sharp jaw.

"Where is your heart?" Wanda breathed, aghast. It was not the throbbing organ in his chest that she was referring to, but the soul that every human must have. It was gone, she could not see it in him.

He was entirely without an aura.

"What are you doing?" Percy hissed, pulling her closer with a sharp tug. "_He'll kill you._"

"I think," Wanda swallowed, her fingertips brushing his cold, hard cheek and the tears that spilled. They were burning hot, and it seared her skin. "I think you are stronger than him."

Percy recoiled like a wounded animal. "Don't touch me," he scowled, shuffling back, "_Don't ever touch me_."

Wanda did not know how, but she had an understanding of this being before her. She knew he was something she should know nothing of. She knew his properties and his domains. She was gaining a mild inkling of exactly _what _Percy Jackson had become, and what he once was.

"Where is _your _heart, Wanda Maximoff?"

Chaos was standing a few paces behind her. Percy grimaced – not in fear, but pain, and tried to rise. His legs failed him.

Wanda was watching Chaos intently, whose black wool coat billowed around his legs by some unfelt breeze.

"Did it wither away like Pietro?" The face he stole twisted into a horrible smile of mockery. "Are you left cold and heartle-,"

With a flash of fury Wanda lunged forth and seized Chaos by the throat, tackling him over. She could not use her powers in this place, so she used the next best thing. She rose her fist and slammed it into Chaos' nose, and she felt it break under her knuckles.

Chaos cried out in agony, and what sounded like sobs bubbled up from his chest. Wanda soon found that it was not sorrow that Chaos emitted, but glee. Trembling, dreadful, appalling glee.

"Ohohohooooo," the blood that leaked from his nostrils was black, "One little flick of the forked tongue and she comes upon me with all her might and rage. Raw humanity. And how long have I been coaxing_ you_, dearest Jackson? Have I not told you the songs and currents of the stars?" Chaos sat up, "Have I not been a rewarding master?"

Percy's blank black eyes were wary, but he did not move. He cringed, as though speaking alone brought horrific agony. "Master?" he gasped, "Y… Y… you're a… you're a leech." He rose his face, a distant green flame flickering over the smooth, shadowy wetness of his eyes. "A parasite."

Chaos' smile vanished. He rose to his feet, all humor instantly obliterated. "There are things one must do to gain his former position. I sat upon a throne of stars. I was winter and the punishing summer. I was God's swift and terrible sword."

"You are nothing!" Percy struggled to stand, "_Nothing!" _

With a growl of animalistic vehemence, Chaos stalked for Perseus. Wanda blocked his path, hands before her as if to ward away some nameless evil.

"Wanda, no," Percy muttered.

"No!" Crowed Chaos, the face he stole smiling wickedly, "No, _let _her protect you, Jackson! Let her die for what you are!" Within the merest instant, his hand enclosed around Wanda's throat, "Watch her die! I tried being a forgiving, understand mentor to you, Jackson. I made you into something so surreal," he was coming unhinged, "so immaculate! I tasted the winds and the world for the first time in all ages, thanks to you! Let me do the same. _Let me give you the godhood you are called to behold!" _

Wanda scratched at Chaos' forearm, drawing more black blood, but the dark god took no heed. Percy's aura had returned, and if Chaos was considered a dark god, than Percy must be the eclipse. A raging, fathomless power warped around Percy's body. How is it that he could call upon his powers, but not Wanda or Chaos?

"Let her go," Percy said.

"Show me my creation," Chaos breathed, "Show me the fruits of my labor."

Wanda's boots were wet, soaked in blood? No, water. Why were they soaked in water?

"This isn't about me," said the Exiled Prince. "Let. Her. Go."

"It's always been about you, Jackson!" Chaos barked, "From the very beginning! It was always about _you!_" He pointed with one finger. "I came to this library to grant you one last gift, an artifact left by the Egyptians. But this place had changed so much. I want to release you to the world, teeming with energies and powers that Zeus and Gaea and Odin himself will fear above all else!"

"You're insane!"

"Thank you very much!"

Wanda drove her elbow back into Chaos' abdomen and twisted herself from his grip.

Percy struck with the speed and inevitability of a peel of lighting. A flash of green snaking fire, and Chaos was thrown, screaming and laughing, countless miles away.

And the whiteness split.

…

Percy woke.

He stared up at the idly spinning fan, and what first came to his mind was _how the Hades had I gotten here. _

The last thing he remembered was… was…

The girl in her red leather jacket – Wanda – tearing herself away from Chaos, and Percy just snapping… striking like a cobra with frightening power and force. A power that scared even its bearer.

But how had he gotten here?

The television in the corner was flickering. On and off, like barely grasping to the only signal it could find. Its antenna was literally a clothes hanger. Percy sat up, and to his surprise, he found that motion no longer summoned great pain. He swept his legs over the side of the bed, peeling the sheets off his sweaty chest. His feet met something hard and pointy, and he inhaled sharply at the cold impression.

Percy peaked over the bed and wrinkled his brow at what he saw.

"Mythomagic figures…?" He remembered Frank Zhang had a little, non-so-serious hobby of collecting them. They splayed out over the floor in a discarded mess, along with a Mythomagic board. Clothes lay strewn across the floor, black shirts, steel-studded belts, and jeans everywhere.

But Percy barely paid heed to any of this. His eyes were on the Mythomagic figure of the god Hades. Something in his consciousness was screaming at him, egging him on, urging him to… to _remember. _

_Remember what? _

He bent over and touched the figure, and he recoiled as a flash of pain overtook his head in a vice of ice and fire. Percy Jackson groaned, burying his fingers deep into his raven-black hair.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" The voice was cold, distant. Edging on sorrow.

Percy jumped, snatching the pen from his pocket the clicking the end. Anaklusmos sprung forth, a source of light in an otherwise dark room.

"There's no need for that, Percy." The voice said, "I was your friend once, I think. Put that away."

He did not. "Who are you?" The Exiled Prince demanded. "Where am I? What happened to Wanda, Captain America, the others? Where is Cha-,"

"I had little time," said the voice, soaked in regret. "And I had come for you. But they are safe, I am sure."

Percy was silent for a moment. "If I put my sword away… will you show yourself?"

"Yes."

He recapped his sword, watching it sink back into a golden pen. "Tell me who you are."

All the shadows began to twist and shudder, rippling and withdrawing. The darkness in the room subsided, no longer smothering the light of the lamp or the sunshine from the window. In the room's center stood a mere boy, maybe 17 or 18, scrawny and short. His hair was inky black, curling around his moonlike face, with eyes black as death.

"You don't remember me," he was saying, "I was seeded in Tartarus just like you were, implanted by a forgotten entity forgotten even by legend. It erased me from this world, and we drifted among the plain of stars and space aimlessly for years."

"Who are you, Nico?"

He smiled. "You just said my name. A corner in your mind remembers me. You were always so powerful, Percy."

"Your… name?" Percy scratched his head, frowning, "I don't know your name. I've never seen you before in my life, Death Boy."

The ghostly boy's smile widened, and he leaned forward intently. "Say it." He whispered, "Say my name."

"I don't know what you're talking about!" Percy erupted from his seat on the bed, waving his arms madly.

"Say it."

"Nico di Angelo! _Who are you?_"

…

**I know somebody will nitpick me somewhere down the line about the sword cutting off Colonel James Rhodes' hand. Celestial Bronze isn't supposed to cut mortal flesh… blah blah blah… whatever. Let's just go with Chaos did something to Riptide the allowed her to harm mortals.**

**And no, Chaos is not the Creator of the world, and he is from no Greek mythology. **

**Anyway, I'm 17 now. My birthday was sometime last week. A very good friend of mine surprised me with a birthday cake she made herself and a sweet little card. It was the single nicest thing anybody has ever done for me. **

**Love you people. **


	11. Chapter 10 - A Pause

**I wanted to make it longer. Ended up cutting a piece out for later. **

**As always, I have my beta to thank for putting up with my procrastination. Enjoy, many new elements are introduced here. **

**DISCLAIMER: I am not aware of the lifestyle in Crete, but just so you don't get confused, I do not portray the country or the place as a third-world country. Also, I don't own Marvel or Disney. Heh. **

…

"_Then what am I, Hestia?"_

Chapter 10 – A Pause

Calypso Valdez was sleeping when the Ghost King came to her.

She did not wake with a start. Rather, her eyes merely fluttered in mild confusion, and she budged ever so slightly to look up at Nico standing above her. He was silent as a wraith. His hand left her shoulder and he brought a finger up to his lips to encourage silence.

This Calypso heeded, but hesitated as Nico gestured for her to follow.

Sitting up, Calypso cast a glance down at her softly snoring husband, and stole herself a soft kiss to his temple, trusting that his hair wouldn't start to smoke. He stirred groggily, but did not wake.

Then she gazed at the slender form between them, lost in slumber.

Their daughter had Leo's latin brown hair, but with Calypso's banana curls and luscious breadth. Her face was round and sun-kissed to a tan shade, and a smile played on her lips even as she slept. Anastasia Valdez was kissed next, and then her mother was gone.

Calypso froze for a fraction, remembering that she was in naught but her rather revealing nightgown, showing a good deal of lush skin and ample cleavage. However, Nico seemed not to care as he slid from the bedroom. Intrigued, Calypso snatched her husband's army-green jacket and wrapped it about her shoulders, her caramel hair tucked into its collar as she padded after the dark angel.

Outside, the moon was new, the stars winking down at earth almost mischievously.

"Nico," Calypso hissed after her friend, who hadn't bothered to slow his stride. "_Nico di Angelo_."

The shores of Crete, with the sea of its namesake, glistened with the stars like laughing diamonds. Calypso stepped over a tortoise who inched his way madly for the Sea of Crete, seeking refuge in the safe depths. Nico stopped when she called his name, and he turned.

This enigma of a boy had come to them weeks before, restoring their memory of who he was. Of course, Calypso had never known him beforehand. She hadn't even the knowledge that Hades had a son. But Leo harbored a history with the shady boy, and they got on well.

"Just follow, Calypso," he said softly, "I don't—…" he took an exasperated breath, "I can't explain."

And with that said, he swept back around and broke into a loose trot, ascending stone steps that led to the town.

The town, as both she and Leo calls it, was a mass of low buildings squatting among large, rolling hills, a mush of adjoined apartments with interconnecting tin roofs that, in some cases, served as walkways for second story dwellers.

Nico guided Calypso through a narrow alleyway, where which an elderly man smoked some sort of drug, tendrils of smoke curling upwards. With the pungent smell, the Titaness wrinkled her nose and coughed. They came to a flat building pressed between two others. A woman stood in the entryway to the right, wrapped only in a small towel. Her hair was wet and dripping, fresh from the shower, and she held the green towel to her bosom, backlit by candlelight.

She called out in an exotic tongue, her smile pure sultry, cocking a hip. Nico snapper something back in Greek. Flabbergasted, she watched as the two entered the housing beside hers. Calypso caught a glint of jealousy in those brown eyes.

"Excuse Pamela," Nico pushed aside the curtains which hung where the door should be, kicking aside empty cans of Coke. "She's, for lack of a better word, a slut."

Calypso grimaced. "Harsh." She commented.

"Yeah."

"So… why do you whisk your only friend's wife away at the dead of night, hm?" Calypso crossed her arms, pulling Leo's jacket tighter around her. It smelled of smoke, coal, and body odor. Exclusively, _Leo's _body odor. The only kind she preferred.

"Why did you follow?" Nico rose an ebony brow, but before he could answer in earnest, there was stirring—a shuffling of sheets and a muzzy groan.

"Wuzz… wuzzgoinon?" Percy Jackson sat up from the couch, on which he buried himself under a hill of blankets. His black hair stood up in perpetually mussed shocks, eyes dimly aglow.

He saw Calypso, blinked incomprehensibly for a moment, and then laid back down. "I'll wake up in a few minutes and she will go away," he seemed to mutter to himself.

A dozen heartbeats.

"I suppose you think I should be surprised," Calypso stated to Nico, in eerie absence of emotion.

"Are you?"

"Not really. Not where Perseus is concerned."

"Huh," both of Nico's brows rose this time, "I could have sworn you would—"

"_What the _Hades_ is he doing here Nico_?"

Percy yelped back awake and fell off the couch, dragging half the blankets with him.

"There we go."

"What is he doing on your couch? When did he arrive? Gods, Nico. It's _Perseus_!"

As she freaked out, Percy Jackson sat on the floor, staring up at Calypso with ever mounting shock. "Oh my gods," he muttered, then said louder, "Oh my _gods. _Calypso!"

Calypso rose her hand, "Save it, Per—,"

"How did you get off that island?" He stood, the wheels in his head cranking, "How could you…"

His eyes fell upon the bronze band around her ring finger, and realization dawned. A smile crept across his face. "Leo… _Leo Valdez, that sly basilisk." _

He was laughing now.

"Hah! I freaking _knew it! _ Where is he now?"

"In bed, sleeping," Calypso hesitated, "With our daughter."

"Daughter? Ohmygods, _daughter?_"

"Anastasia Esperanza Valdez."

Percy held his head, his beam wide and ecstatic. "I can't believe this. _Leo got married. Leo _is _alive_."

Calypso's own smile came to claim her lips, but it faded almost as swiftly as it came.

_Perseus._

"Cal, a trusting husband shouldn't have to wonder where his _freaking wife _is at 1 am in the _morning,_" a fiery voice interrupted the reunion.

Leo Valdez stood in the doorway (or curtain-way), seemingly enraged and befuddled simultaneously. At his side, just barely tall enough to pass up his waist, stood a slim little girl. She still seemed drowsy, even after the walk up to Nico's apartment. Anastasia Valdez rubbed an eye, a little frown on her lips as she looked from her mother, to Nico, then to the man standing beyond the both of them.

Her father's eyes had already found Percy, and now he was frozen, agape, his face blank for a millennia. Then he scowled. "Jerk," he said.

"Jerk? Me?" Percy put his hands to his chest, "Dude, you _faked your death."_

"Nope," he rose a nimble finger. "I _did _die."

Percy blinked. "The Physician's Cure."

"Yep."

Silence between them all, and as it finally grew to an unbearable peak, Percy shifted from one foot to the other and said at last, "So… how you been?"

Leo grinned elfishly. "Lemme show ya."

…

The shores of Crete were calm and tranquil, but that serenity was shredded as a plume of green fire streaked over the white sands and slammed into a lone mound. What ensued was an explosion of scorched sand and greedy-green flames.

Leo let out a low whistle as he stood a little behind Percy, who was lowering a smoking fist.

"Hot diggity dang, boy. That's new." Leo rubbed his nose, taking a sip of a bright orange smoothie, "Stealing my moves."

"Wasn't intentional," Percy said, raising another hand. A slender expansion of green fire slithered from his palm, and he enclosed his fingers around it so that he was holding a fiery whip. "I was… I don't know… I was lost for a time. Something… some_one _invaded me, and he traveled over the world, collecting forgotten powers dropped here and there. Tombs, pyramids, under the oceans, above the skies…" he trailed off, eyes on Nico as the Ghost King approached them. "Chaos changed me. Something _like _him changed Nico to."

"Really?" Leo's own hand came ablaze with flames, tossing the ball of the element up. "He seems like the usual ball of joy he always is." He caught it, then resumed his one-handed, gracefully casual juggling.

"I can't help myself," Nico muttered wryly, turning to Percy, "My deity… she took me to places beyond earth. Svartalfheim, Jutonheim, Muspelheim…" he drew his shoulders in closer. "Even a place called Knowhere. The point is, these things inside of us Percy… they have been deprived of human treatment for so long, they forgot what it means to be alive. They just remember their pain, their imprisonment."

"Since this conversation has taken a turn into nighttime Chicago," Leo rose a finger and began walking off toward his family hut, "I'll be paying my wife and daughter a visit. You guys coming? We're off to the family business."

"Family business?" Percy echoed in question.

"The Valdez Garage: Auto Repair and Cafe."

"That's a mouthful."

"A tasty one. Come on."

"We'll catch up, Leo," Nico said, crossing his arms.

Looking to each of the two, Leo conceded with a nod.

The transition Leo had made from a goofy-elfish-teenage-twig into a goofy-elfish-grown-up-twig was unsettling. Now, his jaw with dark with stubble, he had smile lines in the corners of his eyes, and although he was barely in his twenties, thistles of gray marked his chin. But his smile was as contagious as ever.

"Leo's alive," Percy said to himself, then chuckled almost stupidly.

The two stood there for a long while, just basking in the morn light glow. Percy's own eyes washed over the sea, the domain of a father he once knew. A part of his mind ventured there, to the deep and dark places of the sea where old, powerful beings lie in wait for this age to rot away and begin anew. To undersea palaces, to mermaids and water spirits. To hippocampi and orphiotauri. To the dormant gods belonging to no mythology, to no memory, in deep, fading slumber.

"What do you think of it?" Nico asked softly.

Percy banished his dwellings and turned to his friend, "Of what?"

"The knowledge that there is more," said the Ghost King, lifting his arm and spreading his fingers, reaching out for the rising sun. "The stars're home to thousands of worlds, places where even our gods know nothing of."

Perseus Jackson looked down at his fiery whip and let it sputter away. "Kind of scary, I guess."

"We are a part of it all," Nico said. "We're more than demigods now, Percy. We have aliens inside us. But… that's not why I want to talk with you."

"Then what?"

"The war, Percy."

Percy faced away, the scowl etched in his face. "What about it?"

"The gods gave you back Riptide to fulfill a duty they thought you owed."

The arrogance numbed Perseus' mind. He shook his head. The sand around his feet began to tremble. "Athena came to me. She told me to follow myself. The gods aren't my problem anymore."

"Percy, you need to know that the gods aren't all who are at risk," Nico gazed over the sea, then up at the pink-hued clouds that drifted in wayward leisure. "They're… Percy, the gods are dying. Cursed one by one by the things that emerged from Tartarus after you escaped. The second time. One of those things is inside of you. Another…" he tapped his own chest.

Percy soaked this in, and it took a few moments before he spoke at last in an unsettlingly soft voice. "Are you saying that I doomed the gods?"

"I'm saying that you must face the brutal facts. You didn't bring these heathen invaders, but they came through the path you carved."

…

Tony was anything but cheerful. Quite the opposite, rather, and he didn't bother to have Happy assume otherwise. It was 'Mall Day,' as Pepper put it, and while she had intended to work on the same desk at which he sat now, Tony had implored her otherwise.

"_You," _he had said as he stepped in what had used to be his own office, once upon a time, "_need to go. Go and be free with your, um," _he coughed into his fist, _"physically appealing female companions." _

Pepper Potts' eyes flicked sharply from the monitor and up at her middle-aged high-school boyfriend, _"I am going to pretend you did_ not _just say that."_

"_Mh," _Tony stopped at her desk and plucked a mint from its glass bowl, the plastic wrapping crinkling as he began peeling at it, _"There you go, the eyes. Many a man's knee was set a-quivered under such an," _he narrowed his own eyes behind his red tinted shades, "_such an intense manifestation of—_,"

"_And I'm going to ignore whatever you say next because I am working, and distractions—give me that," _she leaned over the desk and snatched the obnoxious mint from Tony's fingers, "_Distractions, I just_—_I can't afford right now_."

Pepper dragged the bowl of mints closer to her and out of Tony's reach. With flustered fingers she began to frantically attack her keyboard, pointedly zoning her boyfriend out. Tony inhaled and exhaled, both through his nostrils, then set both his hands flat against the desk, peaking at her from over the monitor.

"_You're stressed."_

She stopped typing, and for a length of time she was very still. "_Stressed_," she stated emptily, then blinked and looked up at Tony, "Stressed. _For the love of _God, _Tony! I am running the _single-most financially tipsy_ company on earth, and I have been since before you even _promoted_ me to CEO_. _We are the wealthiest, most successful technological industry around the globe, and if we want to keep it that way, I need_," she clasped her temples, "_I-I need my soft music playing. I need my-my, um, my privacy. Basically, what I'm saying is-,"_

"_You need to rest,"_ Tony finished. He took off his annual douche-bag shades.

Sighing, she leaned over and cradled her face in her hands. _"Dear God, Tony."_

"_I know me being serious can be a," _he coughed,_ "laughable perception. But please take me seriously when I say you've need to rest those scary eyes before they kill your poor intern." _

They stayed that way for some time, with the Stressed Pepper Potts studying the billionaires' vibrant blue eyes that were so often concealed behind tinted lenses. "_I believe you," _she reluctantly conceded.

"_Good_," Tony chirped, then went for one of the mints.

"_No," _Pepper slapped his hand away, but couldn't keep the smile from stealing across her face.

"_Go," _was Tony Stark's immediate reply. "_I noticed the calendar in the kitchen. The kitchen we share, mind you. Mall Day," _he sniffed, as if the idea of shopping an entire day intimidated him. "_You tried covering it up some red marker, but I saw it." _

Pepper stared at him. "_But who would manage the company while I'm gone? Richard?" _She referred to her young intern.

Tony blinked. "_Whose name is this company named after again?" _

"_I did consider changing the name."_

"_To what?" _

"_Does' Potts Does All The Work' sound enticing to you?" _

"_That doesn't seem fair." _

"_It's not." _

"_Hah. But I'm being serious. Go. Leave. Frolic with your fancy friends," _he wrinkled his nose. "_I'm sure that's from some literary doodad that I'll never recall." _

"_I'm sure it's not." _

"_You're late, you're late. You're late for a very important date!"_

Pepper then stood, laughter now unhindered as she swept around the desk and wrapped her Tony Stark in a tight embrace. "_Thank you, sweetie. Are you sure you want to do this?"_

Not really. "_Of course." _But for her, anything.

And so she was off.

First came the phone calls. A sea of voices screaming at him from both the computer and the actual phone. Of course, they stopped and stuttered uselessly when they found that they were speaking to THE Tony Stark. Then would come the apologies, the polite complaints of certain details, the requests for Potts.

But not all were so tender in their approach.

There was a knock at the office door. Tony jerked, startled, his hand straying for the watch that would activate his "Iron Glove." He had been playing some Galaga, to his guilty pleasure, and he was glad that Thor had gone, otherwise the demigod would have laughed at his doe-like antics.

Two sharp knocks, and before Tony could even verbally admit the visitor, the doors were flung open, and a stunning young woman stomped for the desk. Her terror-inspiring eyes put Pepper's to shame, the way they gave the impression of a crackling storm hovering about her blonde head.

This woman's rage was akin to a hurricane, but Tony Stark played it cool, repeating again and again in the privacy of his mind that he had created monsters and nuked an invading alien species by flying through a hole in the sky.

It didn't help much.

"I have a bone to pick with _you, _Mr. Stark."

So, she knew who he was. This fact didn't seem to intimidate her in the least bit. The same couldn't be claimed for Stark.

"A bone?" He didn't move from his position, feet up on the marble desktop, leaning back in the comfy business recliner. Annual tool shed glasses resting over his eyes.

"A big bone," she slammed a stack of papers upon the desk, "Gargantuan."

"You know what they say; Big is good."

She leveled him with a cleaving gaze, which readily snapped Tony's attempts to any light-heartedness.

"This," the woman snatched a cluster of papers at the peak of the stack, practically shoving them in his face, "is impossible."

Tony rose his hands in defense, taking the papers and shooting her a look, which deflected off her steely person.

_God, this lady. _

He went to read it for a moment, then he paused to look back up at her. "I'm sorry— who're you again?"

"Director of Architectural Advancements of Stark Industries."

"Mh, so you're out there with the hardhats?"

"Sometimes. Please read the file, Mr. Stark."

He did. The first two pages of paper displayed constructive blueprints, just without the blue paper. The figure he depicted there the outlines of a building, the new suite he had ordered. He had forgotten about it entirely.

As Tony flipped through the outrageous scriptions he hadn't recalled sketching, he sought causality in their predicament. There was this game he used to play years back before he'd even dated Pepper. To guess the surname of a woman he found attractive. Stark told himself that it wasn't flirting, though it most certainly _was _flirting back then, at least for him. And while he had to admit that this woman was indeed a specimen to behold, too him, she had nothing on his Pepper.

"Lemme guess," He murmured, grimacing at another computer sketch, "Meyers? Audrey, no, _Aubrey _Meyers."

The woman rose a brow. "Are you flirting with me, Mr. Stark?"

Drat.

"_No_," Tony persisted as he swiped off his glasses and set the papers down, "I'm not. How close was I?"

She smirked, the curve of her rosy lips inviting, whether she meant it to be or not, "It's Ambrose, actually." She fixed him with those steely, storming gray eyes. "Annabeth Ambrose. I'm a married woman, Mr. Stark."

He stared at her for a fleeting moment, before scoffing and removing his feet from atop the marble desk. "Now you're just tugging at slack strings, Mrs. Ambrose."

Mrs. Ambrose set her hand upon the stack of papers, all playfulness a mere memory. "What are you going to do about this, Mr. Stark?"

_Me? _"First off," he pointed, "I find your attitude questionable."

"Are we really going to start beating around the bush, Mr. Stark? Because, unlike yourself, I have a real job to get back to."

Tony tried to interject at that stab, but Annabeth Ambrose was on a roll at this point. She rose a hand with sharp indifference, raising her voice to overlap his.

"A _real _job, Mr. Stark, yes. Not all of us have the financial support to turn robot- building into a hobby."

"Saving lives, mind you."

"Destroying more, mind you," she rose her voice even higher, maintaining her dominance in the room. "Mr. Stark, 1.2 million hard-working individuals labor under your name, but we answer to Ms. Virginia 'Pepper' Potts."

Damn. She had him there.

"We cannot afford," Annabeth Ambrose crossed her arms, "We _cannot _afford little leaks that resemble the doodles of an elementary schoolgirl."

Stark, shockingly reserved, sat further up in his girlfriend's desk chair. He could see where Mrs. Ambrose was coming from, as much as he'd hate to admit so aloud. Even as his father died, the greatly acclaimed Howard Stark, Anthony Stark had never been so directly connected to the company. He had always left that to Obediah, to his pretty (albeit stressed) assistant. Hours spent in his workshop, listening to alternative rock and tinkering away at hundreds, dare he say _thousands, _of projects, less than a fifth of which made its way to the board and passed through. Obe had encouraged the young Stark's venture into the darker side of technological development. He supposed that he has that big bald lunatic to thank for the creation of the Iron Man.

What irony. _Heh. _Iron_y, you're so funny, me. _

"We can track the order," Tony said at last, "It came from me, initially, but the order itself goes through some apparently either lazy or mischievous computer interpreters. Basically, they type down a bunch of codes, and the computers turn those codes into shapes, forms." He squinted at the paper, "_Somebody's _keyboard was…. misbehaving."

A diamond-tipped detail snagged Tony's attention. A golden watch was clasped snugly to Mrs. Ambrose's wrist, and it shone with a pristine perfection. The hour, minute, and second fingers ticked along silver roman numerals. But what scorched its imprint in his mind was the face symbol of the wristwatch, an olympian Omega. Something about the device, the symbol, it unnerved Stark. It set alight a candle of inexplicable caution in the back of his mind, and suddenly, Tony Stark was on edge.

A presence had been haunting him. Even in the safety of his fortified home, he felt that a pack of wolves was grinning just outside his door. A mad terror would besiege his senses in the twilight hours of night, unspeakable nightmares orbiting around one image. The Omega on her wrist now.

"Mr. Stark?" Annabeth Ambrose prompted hesitantly, and when no response came, she snapped her fingers just under his nose. Tony blinked, glanced up at her warily, then cleared his throat.

"I'll, uh, mention the problem to Ms. Potts," he said, rather absently.

Mrs. Ambrose studied the multi-billionaire with a calculating stare. "Are you okay, Mr. Stark?" As she said this, the woman's hand strayed—seemingly by instinct—to the wristwatch. She had noticed his steadfast gaze fixated upon the golden gadget, and her own suspicion arose.

Rather than answering, Tony cleared his throat and yet again fixed the shades over his eyes. "Will that be all, Mrs. Ambrose?"

Again, with that steady gaze, she studied him coolly. Her hand left the watch, but not without her thumb tracing the Omega. "Yes, Mr. Stark."

He said nothing.

"Thank you," her eyes narrowed just a tad, lingering on his person for an extension of time before whipping around and exiting from whence she came. Ambrose left the stack of paper behind.

The very moment he was secluded, Tony's hand flew for his own wrist watch and he activated FRIDAY.

"_Good evening, Mr. Stark_."

"FRIDAY, show me profile records for Stark Industries Annabeth Ambrose."

"_Will do_."

Holographic images sprung from the watch's face; Annabeth's polite smile, a bio, short video clips of her standing at a laser-drawn digital board in a conference meeting, and many other details.

He skimmed the top of the bio, murmuring a few phrases "Twice engaged, married once… elementary-kid runaway... Top of her class at some prestigious college…" Tony squinted at the name stationed at the top of the semi-translucent document.

"Annabeth Chase."

…

**Plenty more to come. I have so many ideas. **


	12. Chapter 11-Worthless, Helpless, Innocent

**Okay, so I understand that my first eight chapters are crap. You don't need to keep reminding me of that humiliating point in my life. **

**Disclaimer: You know how it is.**

**WARNING - Explicit language, violence, and innuendos. **

**Chapter 11 - Worthless, Helpless, Innocent**

…

"_You know what you are, my prince. You know what you did."_

A blind man approached the green-painted door, hesitated, and felt for the door-knocker.

_Thump, thump, thump. _

He stepped back, releasing the knocker, and with unseeing sky-blue eyes, he glanced over his shoulder in the direction where he knew his twin sister would be standing, listlessly glowering up at the dim day moon.

Even with the sound of Queens' bustling streets, the blind man could hear shuffling from the other side of the green-painted door. The rustling of pages, the tapping of a typewriter. "One minute!" promised a feminine voice.

Regardless, the blind man snatched the door-knocker again, finding it through memory, and rapped against the door.

_Thunk, thunk, thunk! _

"God, I said one minute!" simmered the voice from the other side of the door. "If it's a package, just leave it, I'm working. Sorry."

The blind man smiled ruefully, then finally spoke. "My kind of package I don't leave lying around doorsteps."

The stunned silence from the inside incited an anxious swallow from the blind man. Maybe a sexual joke was crossing the line. But they had gotten him this far with mortals. Then again, Mara Day wasn't like most mortals. There were urgent whispers, and even from here the blind man could hear Mara desperately shooing her daughter from the room, promising her ice cream and television—anything at all to keep her from seeing the man just outside their threshold.

The blind man's heart knotted itself a tad, and whatever light mood he leaned on perished. He heard the door unlocking, followed by a pause. Mara was readying herself for the onslaught of unbridled fury and other conflicting emotions that were bound to come boiling up from once cold pots.

She opened the door. "Adam." Her tone was brisk, formal, but still had that husk to it that would make her a fantastic phone operator. "If that's even your name."

Gods among us, she sounded hotter than she did four years ago. Or has it been five?

The blind man smiled. It was a sad, small smile, that quirked the edges of his sculpted lips and crinkled the corners of irksomely empty, brilliant cerulean eyes. She could feel her gaze washing over him, trying to find hints to where her once-lover had been all these years while she was left alone, young, desperate, and impoverished, to take care of a lovely little baby girl that was theirs. And she didn't even know his name.

Eh, what the Hades. "It's Apollo, actually," said the blind man, almost awkwardly. He bounced on his heels, the nervous tendency of some hardwired athletes.

He heard her scoff. "Surprisingly fitting. Apollo was the god of poetry, of healing, of the sun, and prophecy. You always had an almost inhuman relationship with any instrument you got your hands on. It all fits, except for one thing." She leaned in, he could feel her presence draw nearer, smell the perfume. Honeysuckle. "Apollo was the god of truth. You lied about everything. You lied about your name, your identity. Your job, your family. You lied about loving me." She took a breath, which was practically blazing with near unrestrained rage. "Do you know what that does to a woman? You make her open up, you seduce her into lowering her walls until she is vulnerable, then you rain traumatizing hell on whatever's behind those walls."

Apollo didn't answer.

"I went to authorities after you disappeared, Adam—Apollo—whatever the _hell _you are," she spat her literations like they tasted vile on her tongue. "The only known Adam Brookly in the world is a Canadian banker, and he's _latino_."

"Not with that name he's not," Apollo chuckled, sobriety returning swiftly after.

"Who are you?" Mara Day shook her head and leaned against the threshold, crossing her arms. "Not even the government knows who you are. Why did you feel the need to thrust yourself into my life?"

Apollo faced where her voice came from, and hoped that where was looking was her eyes. It wasn't. Mara scowled, disgusting, and crossing her arms protectively over her bosom. "I can't even—the nerve of you!" She went to slam the door in his face, but Apollo, noting his error and sensing what was happening next, shoved his sneaker in the doorway. The door slammed against it and bounced back open, and he leaned his weight against the door to keep it open at Mara fought to close it.

"What do you think you're doing?" screamed Mara, "Go away!"

"Mara! Mara look, I'm sorry! I—," he shoved the door open, his strength superior. "Look, I don't—I couldn't tell." For emphasis, he waved a hand over his unregistering eyes.

Mara stared at him, incomprehensive for a few drawn-out seconds before her own eyes widened. "You're blind."

"Yeah."

She studied him, and for the first time since their encounter, she _really _looked at the man whose charm once had her ensnared. He wasn't the same. Hell, the both of them had changed immensely. Mara had grown stronger, grown up a lot quicker under the responsibility most women in their _thirties _would dread. She was resolute, headstrong, and mature.

This man before her was a man defeated. His shoulders were slumped, hands tucked into the pockets of raggedy jeans. His hair, which was once so devilishly mussed was now truly messy, radiating hobo vibes. The slopes under his eyes, bruised hills, spoke of the lack of a good night's rest in months.

"If this is some ploy for sympathy," Mara said slowly, "You aren't getting any from me."

Again, the god smiled. He tilted his head back. "You never really win a woman over with sympathy. A man can lie and lie and lie about dying, about suffering from grief and about losing a fabricated friend or family member, but that'll only win him a comfort-hug and maybe a sad little peck on the cheek." He placed his hand on his cheek, closing his eyes. "No, if you want to win a woman, Mara, you have to be what she wants you to be. Be her listener, her Disney prince fantasy, her protector, her wallet. Not all girls are like that, of course, but I'm just speaking of the majority. You…" Eyes opened again, he tried to find her through the powers that veiled his vision, but to no avail. "You are different. Unlike some girls, you wear no makeup, despite acne scars. You dress modestly, though you have the body most girls would kill for. You were free-spirited, your head in the clouds, filled to the brim with wonderful little tales of your characters and your worlds. You were the first girl I had ever met that felt no need in a man, who didn't really care how men looked at her. You had me the first day we met, Mara Day. Not the other way around."

Mara glanced up the narrow stairway to ensure that Abby wasn't listening in as Apollo continued.

"It took much longer than other woman I've been with. That's when I knew this was worth it. You were worth it."

"We knew each other for seven days before you got us drunk," Mara snapped.

"It usually takes an hour," Apollo shrugged.

Mara felt like vomiting, and she promised herself if she did, it'd be all over his shoes. She shook her head, lovely features contorted with contempt. "You player shit. You just wanted to get in bed with me."

"Yes," he admitted unrepentantly. "To begin with, yeah. That's all I wanted. But the next morning…" Apollo paused, his expression growing distant and wistful. "I turned over and I see you. You're bathed in the sunlight glaring in through the window. Your hair's all over the place, and you were snoring because you were recovering from some sinus infection."

Mara blinked. She didn't recall telling him about that.

"There were freckles on your shoulders, over your nose. And you were drooling," Apollo chortled, forgetting himself, "And I asked myself: '_Why the Hades did I want this girl?_' I stared at you for a while, how imperfect you seemed, and I realized that _that _is exactly why I wanted you. You seemed so much more _real _than other women I've been with. Models, actresses, reporters… When you woke up, when you smiled at me and yawned like a hungry hippopotamus and offered to make us both coffee and talk this over, I realized one thing: I was in love with you."

"Hah!" It came upon Mara, a fountain of dry, dark humor. "Ahah! Don't bullshit me, _guy. _ You can't come to my house out of the blue, you can't knock on my door, you can't attempt to make amends for what you've done to me, and you most certainly can _not _spit horseshit out of your mouth and expect me to eat it up!" She strode past Apollo, to the door, and and opened it wide. "Out. Get out."

Apollo continued without missing a beat. "People like me aren't supposed to love like I did, Mara. I didn't want to run, it wasn't my choice."

"Bullshit. Out."

"The Mara Day I knew didn't curse."

"The Mara Day you knew is dead!" Mara practically screamed, "You killed her! I had rooted myself to you and the belief that I had found the rarest thing on earth," she took a quivering breath, "They almost took Abby. I was on antidepressant pills for _months, _and the doctors thought an abortion was best for my health. I—..." She covered twitching lips. "I didn't want her, I didn't want to raise a girl in this world without a father. What kind of life that would lead? I didn't want my firstborn to live like I did," she tried to regulate her breathing, "I signed the papers, Adam. They were going to take her, inject me with a chemical and she would go as smoothly as falling asleep. It was _in_ me, Adam. I made the decision, I killed our baby. Five minutes later, I felt a bump. She was kicking! I thought she was too small to kick. I knew then that I had made the biggest, most horrible," she coughed a sob into her first, "... I felt like a monster. I thought she was writhing with pain in my own tummy, dying, and I had killed her. It was as easy as snuffing a candle flame." Rivulets of tears trickled down her cheeks. "Five more minutes passed. The doctors came to me, they were speechless. They told me that had injected two pumps of the poison that would kill her, more than enough for a smooth and proper passing, but she was _alive._"

She was crying now, walls akin to post-Jerico, all the tension was washed away with the drops of Mara's tears. Apollo felt like he should embrace her, offer her what strength he had left in this moment of weakness, but he knew that would make things worse. Mara saw him as a grotesque animal. She would never let him touch her, not ever again.

"They," Mara sniffled, "They offered to try again, no fee. I screamed at them no. No, don't take her away. She's beautiful. This was before her gender had even been identified. They thought I was raving mad, but they let me go. Months later, I go in for a check up, and they check her sex. And I swear to God the whole nursing staff were converted to Christians that day. The woman whose baby fought and defeated a lethal poison, then tells them that it's a girl."

A long silence followed. Apollo didn't know what so say, other than to note how strong his daughter must be to have fought the mortal concoction as a baby barely out of the embryo phase.

"I want you out, Adam," Mara said softly. "I want you away from me, away from my daughter, and I never want to see you again, or so help me God I will stick your head so far up your ass you could eat your own stomach."

"I want to see my daughter."

"She's not yours, Adam. You gave up that right when you left."

"No," Apollo shook his head, "No, you don't understand. I _have _to see her. I need to tell her something."

"What could you possibly tell Abby?" Mara was incredulous.

"He wants to give me my birthday present."

Both adult's heads spun in the direction where Abby spoke. Somehow, with mynx-like stealth, she had crept down the stairs, and was now seated half way down, clenching the bars of the railing with little fists. With big blue eyes, so much like Apollo's, she stared and stared at her father.

Apollo thought he might cry. No prophecy, no foretelling could ever possibly prepare him for hearing the voice of his last daughter, the heir to his legacy, for the first time. She sounded so beautiful, so profoundly angelic, and he wanted nothing more than to take the girl in his arms and hug her and smother her in sloppy daddy kisses. Oh, the brutality of immortality.

"You hurt my mommy," Abby said as Apollo slowly approached the girl, as though he were nearing a frightful doe. "But she will forgive you. Mommy is very forgiving. And she can do cartwheels, too. Not many mommies at the daycare can do cartwheels. Some are too fat, others're too shy, and most think it's… it's…" Abby squinted her large, breathtaking eyes, in search for the perfect word. "Improper."

"Abigail Bethesda Day," breathed the god of the sun, "You're right, I'm here to give you my present."

Abby stared at her father, expression unreadable, which was unsettling to see in such a young and alive child. "You're one hundred and eighty-two days late. I can wait another one hundred eighty-two."

Even Mara was stunned. She had expect at least a light dose of curiosity from her girl, but Abby seemed to have expected her father's arrival. And rather than anger, or confusion, or joy, she met Apollo with grim and blatant rejection.

Abby's rebuff rolled off Apollo's shoulders like water over riverstones. He approached the slight and sullen little girl, fumbling for the railing. His hand found it, and against his will, the god's voice broke when he spoke. "You sound so perfect."

Gods, when had he become so mortal? _When your godhood was robbed. _

Mara stepped over to stop the intruder in his tracks, to keep him away from her beloved daughter, but Abby shook her head. "Mommy, he's right. He needs to talk to me."

The young mother halted, blinking. "Abby, sweetheart, don't be silly, he's—"

"—My daddy," finished Abby sagely. "Apollo, God of the Sun and Prophesies and Health and Archery and Music and… and, um," again, her eyes narrowed intensely, "of truth."

Apollo grinned madly. She had dreamed of this very encounter, she knew who he was. She probably even knew what she was going to have for dinner. This little girl, his very last daughter, was far more adept than he had imagined. She had the potential of godhood in her blood. Maybe the Fates had remained true to this world after all, rather than abandoning Earth. "You're right, Abigail, girl. You're absolutely right," breathed the god. He drew closer.

Mara hesitating, the primal urge to send this man toppling out of her house and down her steps suppressed by her daughter's chilling words.

From under Apollo's jacket, he revealed a leather bound volume. It was frayed with age, and glaring from its crest, winking in the house's lights, snugly lay a pure scarlet ruby the size of a large toe. Breathlessly and in total awe, vibrant eyes so wide with delighted wonder, Abby took the book in her delicate little hands and traced her fingers over the worn cover.

"I'm meeting her soon, aren't I?" Whispered Abby, elated and anxious.

"Very soon," confirmed the god.

Abby felt the book's buckle that clasped it shut. "May I?" She said, tentatively.

Mara shook her head as though she might be dreaming. Her daughter, her Abby, never asked another adult for permission. And who is this girl they so passively mentioned?

"Sure thing," Apollo nodded. "It's yours now."

The buckle seemed to unclasp itself as Abby stroked it methodically with tender fingers. The cover swung open, and on the first page stared back an array of words in Ancient Greek. Abby began reading dutifully, her lips mouthing the words she read as smooth as she might read English. Smoother, even.

"The Mist," said Abby.

"Crumbling," Apollo said, "It will be gone by Christmas Eve."

Abby fixed her attention on Apollo with a grim stare. "The world will change."

"Dramatically," Apollo nodded again, then coughed into his fist. "Protect your mother, okay Abigail? Keep her close, protect her."

"What're you saying to my daughter?" Mara demanded, stepping closer. "Adam, what's going on?"

"What about you?" Hissed the little girl. She clutched the book to her chest.

Apollo's smile was morbid. It was bitter and it was peaceful and it was just so very sad. "I'm an old man, kiddo. A Cataclysm is coming, a storm with no other purpose than to shake humanity to its founding bones. The gods' hour has come, we've lost the war to time. It's about time we fade humbly into the shadows."

"What do I have to do?" whispered Abigail Day, lips parted, awestruck and terrified.

He told her, gentle and comforting whispers into the little girl's ear. Then he pressed a firm kiss to the girl's brow, as he will never hear her again, and then he was gone. Out into the night, across the street to the car where his listless sister sat, lauding the moon and bathing in its divine shine.

Mara Day watched them go, and she felt uncharacteristically saddened. For whatever reason, she knew not. So many questions boiled in her mind, and when she had turned back to her daughter, she asked the one question that stood at the summit of curiosity.

"What did he say? I couldn't hear."

It took Abby a moment to return to planet earth. She rose her head from the book that was given to her, auburn curls framing a youthful and somehow regal face. She said two words, one name.

"Tony Stark."

…

That was not the end of the Days' night.

Just as the car zoomed away into the distance, and as Mara closed the door to their condo, leaning against it, mentally drained, another vehicle slowed and parked itself at the other end of the road. It was a black suburban, its windows illegally tinted.

The back door popped open and a terribly average man, balding and plump, hopped out. He fixed his glasses, and despite it being 10 at night, looked both ways down and up the road before crossing to the Days' residence.

Mara, at the other side of the door, went to the open kitchen to make herself a cup of coffee, after which she'd examine the gift Apollo had given her daughter.

Just as the coffee maker began humming, the average and balding man had successfully lock-picked the door and swung it open. Mara hadn't heard it over the humming of the coffee machine, but the cool night breezes would reach her promptly. Abby noticed the man from the stairway, however, and her lips parted, frightened. She couldn't make a sound.

Stepping briskly, the man pulled from the flat package in his hand a record disc, and he placed it on the antique record player at the end of the hall. He set the needle down just as the record player began spinning the disc.

_I Got You (I Feel Good) _by James Brown began to tumble from the record's mouth. Mara yelped, dropping her mug of hot water, which shattered against the ground. She spun to face the hallway, and spotted the intruder and the spinning record player.

"Who the hell—? What—," she desperately snatched a knife from its rack on the counter and pointed it uselessly at the plump man. "What are you doing in my house?"

The man rose his hands, but he remained dead calm. "I'm not here to hurt you," he said in an accent that was definitely European, yet not at all friendly.

Mara shook her head. She felt something like static buzzing at the helm of her conscience. The muscles drawn taut with panic relaxed a fraction, and Mara involuntarily lowered her knife. "Abby, where's… Abby, are you okay?"

"Your girl is fine," assured the intruder, sparing a glance at the girl who crouched on the steps like a doe in the headlights. "She will be fine."

"Don't… don't." eyelids torturously heavy, a throbbing headache. It came like a pool of magma filling a once cool sink. The young mother gritted her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut, leaning against the counter. "Don't touch my dau…" The privilege of speech became something totally unknown to the mother.

"We're not here for your daughter, Ms. Day," murmured the plump little man. He grinned suddenly, like he knew a secret she did not. "You know who you are, Ms. Day. You know why I am here."

"I've never…" Mara tried to stand straight. She rose the knife again, fighting it. Resisting the magma pooling in her mind and melting away all sense of being. All that mattered was the threat. "I've never seen you in my life."

The intruder took a step back, scowled, then turned to twist the volume knob of the record player.

The increased volume almost sent the young mother reeling as if she suffered some severe mental blow. She clapped her hands over her ears, but the _I Got You _bled from between her fingers to stab fiery arrows in her mind.

Mara Day screamed.

Abby grimaced from her spot on the steps, clutching her belated birthday present close, and looked on in horror as her mother writhed against the counter in unmatched agony. All she wanted to do was help, to take the thick volume to the intruder's noggin, but she knew that could be no option. There were some things outside. Bad, bad things, with claws and smiles and sharp-toothed monsters. She knew they circled the house like wolves, and they gnashed their fangs and howled with delight when the sounds of Mara Day's pain blessed their ears.

Nobody else could see them, though. They were only her enemies, and hers alone. But they would not allow her to interfere. If she did, they could kill everyone.

And so she sat, and she watched, and she cried.

Mara Day lay still at last, appearing to have passed out from the torture. The balding intruder turned the volume back down, which hadn't even been that loud to begin with, and pulled the disc from the record player, sliding it back into its package.

"She fought it this time," spat the plump little man, clearly frustrated. "You said we wouldn't have any issues. That is an issue."

"Oh please," the woman that was Mara Day, but not, sat up. She rubbed her head, wincing, as though it had been struck. "It was nothing you couldn't handle."

"I am just a scientist! A psychologist!" shot back the little man. "What am I supposed to do if your _roommate _fought the trigger off enough to get a blow at me?"

The woman that was not Mara Day checked herself in the reflection of a wine goblet. She frowned disapprovingly and ran her fingers through her mussed, lush, dark auburn hair. "Too long," she clucked. "Impractical. You're half a year late, Doctor Avil."

Avil threw up his arms. "The Avengers! After SHIELD fell they got their hands on in-base intel. They know our outposts, our checkpoints, all our facilities! So my team and I decided to move, sanction ourselves in Albuquerque until the Massacre blew over."

"You ran when HYDRA needed you," the woman quirked Mara's slender brow. "Why should I not kill you where you stand?"

The doctor laughed. "Oh please," he mocked. "We both know I am far more important than you could ever be. You are just an asset; I make the assets. So, rather, why should I not have my men hang you from the lamp posts outside?"

Not-Mara's smile was slow but sure, wicked and knowing. "Because I have information on Percy Jackson."

Doctor Avil's eyes widened. "The New York Incident."

"Yes," confirmed the woman, perching at the brim of the counter, "So that wasn't you. Thought you were trying to kill me, at first."

"I hadn't ordered the assault," said Doctor Avil, "I can't! I'm just a psychologist."

"Oh, for the love of God," the woman threw up her arms and slid off the counter. It was strange, seeing someone wear the same face as Mara, speak in the same voice as Mara, but seem nothing like her.

This woman had a lax, almost predatory slink to her saunter. Her voice adopted a lilting tone that exuded peril rather than admiration. It was almost if Mara Day had taken a long swig of vodka, stretched long unused muscles, and was ready to "bring the sexy back."

Her name was Ray Adams, created by HYDRA.

"Well?" urged the doctor impatiently. "What is it? Tell me."

Ray leveled the man with a flat glower, and he wilted away like a snail under salt. "Now why would I do that? You're just a psychologist."

Doctor Avil scowled yet again, then spat.

"Yuck!"

Both heads spun to stare at the little girl crouched on the steps. Abby had exclaimed her disgust of Avil's actions involuntarily, and now had her hand clasped tightly over her mouth.

Ray shook her head. "Kids," she muttered.

Doctor Avil shuffled his feet, averting his gaze. "The Faceless Man is here," he said, defeated. "He will debrief you."

With absolutely no belief in what she was hearing, Ray stepped to cut the doctor off as he made for the exit. "You can _not _be serious. Why would he be—"

"He's fascinated," Doctor Avil didn't meet her eyes, and instead busied himself with adjusting his glasses. "Fascinated in you and Ms. Day's… relationship. He now possesses Level Cerberus, so you may tell him everything." He dabbed his brow, which shone with sweat. "Damn it, damn it. Percy Jackson," he mumbled on and on as he bustled out the door.

Ray watched him go, then turned to jab a finger at her dual-self's daughter. "One word while he's here and I'll feed you to the neighbor's pooch, capiche?"

Abby stared at her, knowing full well who exactly glowered from behind her mother's face. "Poodles don't eat people, dummy."

Ray didn't answer, and instead sat herself down at the kitchen table, staring blankly ahead as if the chair she sat in may be the throne of the death row. She was tense, too, like she expected the jolt of thousand vamps of voltage to shock her body to death. She stared at the open door, averting only when the threshold was filled suddenly, and a presence entered the room with ghoulish silence.

The Faceless Man probably did have a face under that black mask. It was a head-sock, made of some seamless, ebony fabric. The eyeholes were concealed with built-in lenses of shades. He wore on his head an equally dark, wide-brimmed hat, at its crest gleaming a stainless steel star. His suit, black, tailored with silver buttons. His pants, shiny shoes, all inkwell black.

This man was like a walking shadow.

Even with the skintight mask on, Ray could see how it clung to the Faceless Man's, well, face, telling tale of a man gaunt and towering. Hollow cheeks, a sharp jaw.

The Faceless Man paused on his journey down the hallway to closely examine a 2 by 2 fresco hanging on the wall. With black leather gloved hands he reached up to stroke the oakwood frame.

"I want this," he said.

Just as he concluded his admiration of the fresco and continued down the hall, one of the HYDRA agents dogging his steps took the fresco and tucked it under his arm.

"Ah," the Faceless Man's voice, smooth with a honeyed tenor, was not at all muffled by the mask's material.

Ray struggled to find any hint of eyes behind those tinted dark glass lenses, any sign of movement that signalled anything human.

Nothing.

As he came to the lip of the hallway, again the Faceless Man stopped, this time to behold Abby Day. He altered his course from Ray and instead crouched down at the bottom of the stairs.

Since the very moment the Faceless Man had crossed the threshold and into the Days' flat, Abby had opened the book given to her and hunched over its pages, scribbling with an almost rabid passion.

He ignored Ray Adams entirely, his interest fixed only on the little girl. His head titled, and with it the brim of his hat slanted. For the first time since he entered the house, he spoke.

"What do you have there, my dear?" His voice was rich and quaint, like warm syrup. He laced gloved fingers, his posture not all menacing, albeit eccentric.

Abby's eyes snapped up to the man, but even as her gaze left the pages, she still drew with a pencil in her hand like she needn't sight at all. "It's my sketchbook," she said. "I tell stories in it. This is my first one."

"Show me, sweetheart."

"Would you really be interested?"

"Of course."

Abby granted the Faceless Man her first smile, then turned the book so that he could see its pages.

A stick figure in a cowboy hat was depicted there, his head tilted, hanging by the neck from a gleaming lamp post. The Faceless Man took one look through tinted shades, threw his head back, and he laughed. He slapped his knee before standing, shaking his head in bemusement as he sauntered over to the kitchen table where Ray Adams sat attentively.

He pulled out a chair, turned it about, and sat in it backwards, arms hanging over the backrest.

The ensuing lack of speech, save an awkward cough from a HYDRA henchman, was engulfing. After what seemed like eons, the Faceless Man shrugged nonchalantly. "Well?"

"Zul is my scheduled data collector," Ray kicked lightly at a shard of the shattered mug, almost fidgety. "What changed?"

"Zul has been compromised," The Faceless Man answered steadily. "The salvage team found him in his office with a smoking crater in his chest and a gun in his hand."

"Stark," Ray noted.

"Stark," The Faceless Man nodded once. "The Avengers sheared through our forces like a sickle through barley. Only now have we been able to recollect ourselves. An unforeseen stroke of luck distracted the Avengers long enough for the rest of HYDRA to hide in our holes, plot our next move. Therein lies your critical information on our most… intriguing asset."

Ray Adams leaned back coyly in her seat, crossing one leg over the other while she checked the contents of a mug still in-tact on the table top. She took a sip of the lukewarm tea, then stole a glance at the sheet of paper tucked in the typewriter. "Purely by chance, I've had an indirect encounter with Level Cerberus asset Percy Jackson on August 18, 2015. He knows me by face as my dual cover, Mara Amanda Day. Earlier that day, Doctor Avil had conducted an experiment in which he plays the trigger at a very low volume, so low that Day could not consciously hear it. I woke, though, and I was conscious and active in her mind as she took her daughter to a side-street restaurant for her birthday. The ass—"

"You're birthday!" The Faceless Man's head swiveled to Abby, who had gone back to drawing fervently. "Happy belated one to you, Abigail Day!"

Abby did not bother to acknowledge him.

"Sorry," said the Faceless Man to Ray. "Please continue."

She did.

"There was no way I could seize control and direct Day to the asset. But we had the good fortune of Day's daughter confronting Jackson. Day found interest in the asset, and a conversation ensued. He identified himself as Perry Johnson."

The Faceless Man snapped a finger at the nearest HYDRA operative. "Perry Johnson, look it up on the Database. He may be using the name of a friend or relative."

The operative stepped forth and swept the typewriter and the stack of paper beside it to the floor. Ray regarded the mess dispassionately. "She loved that thing."

"Then we'll order another," the Faceless Man drawled absently. "Watch yourself, would you?" he said to the operative. "You'll make Ray's host here sad."

The operative ducked his head sheepishly as he removed a sleek white laptop from the compact backpack he had slung from his shoulders. Ray continued her report as the laptop powered up and the operative began typing away.

"Initially, asset appeared to be ill. His hands shook, suffering erratic spasms. Behavior was sporadic; I suspected violence if the kid kept on yammering."

"Explain their conversation for me, Ray," said the Faceless Man conversationally. The way he talked gave the impression he was sharing a warm coffee with an old friend, rather than conducting a critical debrief.

"Oh, she told him about her writing passion. How his 'name' and her protagonist's were the same. A funny coincidence, that. Mara could have dug deeper, but those HYDRA field idiots had to stomp in and ruin _everything_. Do you have any intel on who authorized the attack?"

The Faceless Man waved his arm dismissively. "Unimportant. Stay on topic."

"Unimportant?" demanded Ray. "If those agents hadn't stuck their asses where they didn't belong, Day could have given him a phone number or her email. Are you saying that's not important?"

The Faceless Man might've risen his eyebrows. It was hard to tell. "How do you figure?"

Ray's smile was wicked and lazy, like a preying cat. "I felt potent levels of attraction for Percy Jackson."

"Oh my."

"Right? At first I couldn't believe my luck."

"That's _adorable!_"

"I—... what?"

The Faceless Man clapped his hands together with the giddiness and energy of a devout fangirl at a concert. The sounds his hands made when they met were muted by the thick leather gloves. "Adorable! Purely a delight. Mara Day and Percy Jackson, both so, _so _much more than they seem, sharing a little spark. Tell me, do you believe the attraction is mutual?"

"Uh," Ray coughed into her fist, caught completely off guard by the Faceless Man's girlish antics. "Yes, from what I could tell. Glances at her fingers in search for a wedding or engagement ring, frequent blushes and stuttering. If I may say, off the record, it was quite endearing."

"Nothing _you _say is off the record, Ray," he could be smiling under that mask. "Please, continue."

She shrugged. "The attack knocked out Day. She suffered a concussion. You know the rest."

She got up, in search for something on the bookshelf. As she did, The Faceless Man obliged.

"Jackson efficiently eliminates the threat through marvelous displays of power, vanishes for a week, then reappears robbing a bank. Not any bank; the world's wealthiest bank, in Dubai. And with a wide portion of that money, he rents the service of some of the world's most apt soldiers of fortune."

Ray Adams slammed a thick atlas onto the table and flipped it open to a bookmarked page. In the dead center of the book, spread to both pages, was a ovalar depiction of the whole world. Daycare stickers of blushing stars and smiling suns in shades dotted the map on specific locations.

Ray poked one sticker. "A pyramid in Egypt. Ransacked, only one thing taken. A medallion. Two days later, a museum watchman finds the very same medallion wiped clean of fingerprints in a ziplock bag at their doorsteps. Move on a few weeks, Jackson and his entourage are sighted in Mexico, raiding an ancient Aztec pyramid. A Sun King's tomb was found pried open, his remains crumbling bone. Historians and experts say that the king, Chulan, should have been in possession of a book that as fabled to teach sorcery."

"Ahhh," The Faceless Man nodded slowly, stroking his chin. "It seems that our asset is in search of power."

"Sir," said Ray, with no other idea of how to address the man, "I have reason to believe that Jackson here is not Jackson."

"Oh? Do enlighten me."

She obliged without missing a beat. "Before our encounter, Percy Jackson's actions had been strictly obscure. He made no personal connections. He drifted from shore to shore like a ghost. The only violent action he had made was knocking flat a man who was abusing his girlfriend on the bus. The abuser's girlfriend, not Jackson's."

"What do you believe has changed?"

"In all those years on the run, the asset never put his powers to use. At least, not so open as he did dismantling the HYDRA field monkeys. Then he reappears, using his powers every chance he gets. Flaunting them, even. Hurting people, tomb-raiding, stealing historical or mythological artifacts even our archeologists haven't been able to find in their centuries of digging. It is completely unlike him. Even the name he chose, Chaos. Before then Jackson was anything but chaotic."

"You suspect a neurotic switch? Akin to you and Day's relationship?" Doctor Avil stepped forth, his mind reeling faster and faster every passing moment.

_God, _mused Ray, _that man never stops thinking. _

The Faceless Man must have made some sort of disgusted expression, for sound distaste was laced in his tone. "Please don't use the word 'neurotic'. You make it sound like brain porn."

Doctor Avil courageously ignored the walking talking shadow of a man, his eyes darting about as he made the mental calculations. "I am no adept in the supernatural sciences, but I do suppose every use of some abnormal force would require a considerable flashing city of flaring neurons. And that CAN very well lead to some sort of personality disorder, schizophrenia, or something of the likes. But that is only a theory."

The Faceless Man stared at him. "Well that got us nowhere at all. Tell me his hospital records. Show me where he's been, medically. And you," he nodded to the operative on the laptop, "did you find anything on Perry Johnson?"

The HYDRA operative squinted at the screen, scrolling through bio files. "Several Perry Johnsons in the states. Nothing stands out."

"Perhaps just a childhood acquaintance," the Faceless Man waved his hand dismissively. "Get started on Jackson's medical record."

"No need," interceded Doctor Avil, "I have the record memorized. The only appointments he had ever made with any doctor was in his elementary years. Bruises, laceration, and a concussion. No clear answer was given by Jackson, but abuse was suspected. His stepfather, Gabe Ugliano, was put on the NYPD watchlist, but was never brought in for questioning."

"Why not suspect the mother? I understand he has one living relative left." The Faceless Man drummed his fingers on the table in his ponderings. "One must realize that any woman could show a magnificent display of cruelty. Gender has little matter here."

Ray sat quietly, and soon the only sound that split the air was pencil to parchment as Abby worked tirelessly on her birthday present.

"Is that all, Ray, my dear?" inquired the Faceless Man.

Ray nodded. "Yes."

"Perfect. We shall take this information to our analysts, see if any of our theories bare any fruit." He nodded to his men, and they retreated out the door. "My men are following a golden corvette as we speak. Gorgeous specimen, but too modern for my tastes."

"Your point is?"

"The owner was speaking to Day not a minute before we arrived."

Ray shrugged a shoulder, passionless. "Day _did _suffer some sort of emotional breakdown. I could feel the residual misery after we switched."

"We'll find out who that man is within the hour, and we'll decided whether or not he affects our operation." The Faceless Man stood and stretched, scooting the chair back under the kitchen table. "Have a lovely night."

And he was gone. The door closed behind, so gentle a click ensuing that it was near soundless.

The very instant the door closed, Ray sprung from her chair and scrambled for the bathroom. Her hands trembled, it was all she could do to keep them still in the presence of HYDRA. Ray swung open the bathroom door and practically tore the mirror-cabinet hinges off as she frantically opened it.

The only thing sitting behind the mirror was one small case of pills. She took it, popped it open, and shook three out. Ray then closed the cabinet after putting the case of pills back in, with more force than intended, a hairline split running down the middle. Ray glared at her reflection, and rose the pills to her pillowy lips, tilted her head back, and swallowed them whole.

The effects of the heroine took a few seconds to kick in, and the shaking stopped. Ray relaxed, leaning against the sink. She became absorbed with her reflection.

Mara truly was a beautiful woman. She was fair, with a faint splash of freckles sprinkled across the bridge of her nose and her upper cheek. Her hair was a dark mahogany, lush and wavy and unruffled. Her lips full and plush. Ray felt a spark of jealousy. She was only an elaborate disorder. This was not her body. This was not her life.

She was a HYDRA experiment who became important only because she encountered Percy Jackson. And under that, she was an addict, a junkie.

Ray let her head drop.

Mara Day lifted it back up.

She gasped, as if all the air had left her lungs. She jerked, her eyes locking with her own in the mirror. With her brow crinkled, she traced the vertical crack down the middle of the mirror, befuddled. Mara stepped out of the bathroom stiffly, and she gaped at the mess in the kitchen.

Her typewriter was laying flat on its side, her manuscript once stacked neatly on the table and ready to be stapled was strewn about the floor, some pieces of paper soggy with the puddles of water that had come from the shattered mug.

In a haze, Mara Day stared, rubbing the dreadful headache at her temple. "Oh no," she whispered. She found Abby on the steps, her attention fixed on her mother.

"Abby, honey, did I have one of my episodes again?" she asked quietly.

Abby, sacrificing not a sound, nodded slowly after an elongated silence.

_Oh dear God, not again. _

"Baby, I'm so sorry," Mara pushed her fist to her mouth to suppress a gasping sob, "I-I don't know how to stop it. The doctors say my blackouts are partial to anger. Did I hurt you? Oh God, did I _hurt you_?"

Abby stared at her mother, unblinking, saying not a word. But Mara spotted the quiver in her daughter's lips, and she stepped forth in an effort to reconcile. "Honey, I—"

Abby shied away. Mara halted, speechless, impossibly wide eyes brimming with liquid dread as she helplessly watched her daughter take up her massive book and dash up the steps.

The tears came. Mara's sorrow climbed up and out of her throat, and the young mother pressed her fist to her mouth and bit at her knuckles. The sobs sounded like she might vomit, and Mara staggered back and away from the steps and into the open kitchen.

She slipped in a puddle. Mara caught herself on the counter, but ultimately lowered herself onto the kitchen floor. She leaned against the cabinets under the sink, blinking at the tears that blurred her vision, and Mara Amanda Day cried like she did when she was a little girl, hiding from the flying beer bottles and the swimming curses.

_Just like mother._

…

It was 5 in the morning, and Percy could not sleep.

So he chose a night out in the twilight shoreline of Crete, rather than to deliberately seek out the nightmares, which were sure to daunt should slumber find him.

The moon was a smiling crescent, a luminescent curve in the night-blue sky. The stars were so very far away, as though they were in retreat, disgusted by the vile and contemptuous sins humanity had committed against the earth. Even as the thought fleeted by, Percy found the stars, as distant as they might be, to be celestial in their beauty, and serene in their winking and diamond twinkling.

And again, the moon, oh the moon. So phosphorescent was her shine that she illuminated the languid, ebony waters of the sea, whose rolling waves churned the white sand of the beach with content and satisfied sighs. The whispering of the tide enthralled the son of the sea, and he knew that it was in this hour that all things, good and evil, right and wrong, innocent and vile, were still.

The gentle pitter patter of bare feet against cool stones stole away Percy Jackson's ponderings. He jerked, the darker instincts in his bones nearly seizing the helm of his awareness, and he cast a glance over his shoulder.

Anastasia Esperanza Valdez halted midway down the winding stepping-stone pathway that led to the porcelain beach. Even from the twelve feet that yawned between the two, Percy could spot the whites of her eyes as she widened them.

During his days living with the Valdez's, he hadn't once ever heard little Ana speak a single word. It was so very unlike both her parents. Leo, who still cracked his humor through grueling work, and his mother, who fussed and debated and was always on top of the latest happenings of the Crete village. Ana possessed neither of these qualities, and instead remained ghostly in her silence.

And here she was, out so early in the morning, without her parents in sight. Concern and curiosity embedded itself in Percy's features, and he turned a bit where he sat on the stone stair-path. "You can't sleep either, huh? What're you doing so far out so late?" _Or early_, he stated in the privacy of his mind.

Ana was ghastly silent. In the night, adorned in her white nightgown which draped down to her ankles, Anastasia resembled some phantasmal stigma. Even with the fright etched in her youthful features, she displayed a serene quality that was so profoundly angelic, that it wouldn't take much convincing at all to persuade a mortal that she was the daughter of a demigod and a titan.

"Ana?" Percy attempted to reach the girl with his speech, the sea's breath carrying his voice to her, "Are you okay?"

The girl stared at him, then she ran. Straight for him. So astounding was her speed, and so abrupt her actions, that Percy had to duck. Even as he did so, Ana sprung, placed one small, bare foot on his head, and pushed off, sailing into the air and amid the sea wind.

Anastasia Valdez flew. From her spot in the air, she glided down to the crest of the beach as the gales cradled her. Her feet met the sand with a gentleness that denied such a long distance traveled. Frantically, with a fear unknown to Percy, she dashed for the rolling waves.

Percy Jackson cursed, springing to his feet after overcoming his initial shock of seeing a girl with no previously presumed powers levitate twenty to thirty yards. But what was even worse, the girl was heading straight for the waves.

He knew an attempt of suicide when he saw one.

He broke for the girl, size, speed, and stamina all in his favor as he careened down the hillside to swiftly overcome the the youngest Valdez. Frankly, Percy had underestimated his ability to run, and with momentum on his side, he, completely unintentional, full-on tackled the slender little girl.

"Oh gods!" Percy shouted into the sand right after faceplanting there. He lifted himself up and off the girl. "Oh gods, I'm sorry!" He spat sand.

Anastasia was merely winded, as if one of the boys she played soccer with in the dirt roads had knocked her over, nothing more. She looked up at him, cheek smeared with sand and mud, and with a strength that denied her slight and slender frame, connected her foot with Percy's jaw in a piston-kick, sending him in a complete flip back and head first into the sand.

_That's a first._

Percy was back on his feet almost as instantly as he landed, but Ana's feet were already splashing in the shallow tides.

"Ana! Wait! _Wait!_" A primal desperation seized Percy, and again he pursued the girl as she fled for her death.

What Anastasia failed to account for, Percy bore the seas' reins. So as the salt water splashed at Ana's ankles, rising to her shins and nearing her knees, Percy reached out with one hand. With a cry of exerted effort, the water rose abruptly to conform a wall so vast and wide, the youngest Valdez found herself trapped in its shadow.

She skidded to a halt, yelping, and tripped over her own feet. Mud and sand staining her knees and skirts, she scrambled back as Percy approached, who was unwittingly ominous in the moon's luminous shine. "St-stay away! Stay back!"

Percy stopped when her heard her pleads, and so he obeyed, lowering himself to a crouch to near her eye-level. The girl looked so small and frightened, like a cornered doe. Her jaw trembled, fighting tears.

There they were, the girl propped up against her arms, leaning back as she looked up at the man crouching not two feet away from her. There they were, a man and a girl, bathed in the moon's phosphorescent smile. The only sounds made were the shortness of their breath, the aftermath of adrenaline, and the sighs of the tide that pushed at their toes.

Percy Jackson reached out with his hand, fingers spread wide, smile affectionate and eyes brimmed with a profound sense of… _knowing. _The wisdom of a man harmed, and the diamond-tipped strength and resolve of a man who clawed from the pits of utter despair.

"Hey," his voice was warm as the Black Sea, "You don't need to be afraid. Not of me, anyway."

Ana swallowed the burning coal in her throat, and let out a gasping sob. She covered her mouth, and her shoulders shook with the sorrow there. The utter helplessness displayed in such a fragile and brittle portrait was such a dreadful sight to behold. Without so much as thought but the instinct engraved in his bones, Percy took the girl in his arms like he would a daughter of his own blood.

"H-He's not h-h-" She gulped a sob, tears soaking the shoulder of Percy's shirt. "Not h-here," a faltering inhale. "He's never h-here."

Percy was not sure what to do. He never had a child, he never boasted the luxury of leading a boring desk job, working to finance the life of a little and loving family. To be terribly—beautifully—average. With no monsters dogging your shadow, no nightmares hiding under your pillow, and no threat hovering over your shoulder. Comforting this girl was considered such a mundane task, one that even he, killer of monsters and things much older and ghoulish, had no faith he could accomplish.

So, hesitantly, with the tenderness as though Ana might shatter like glass under his touch, Percy lay a hand at the back of her head and stroked her impossibly soft curls. A sea of questions rose like a tsunami within Percy, but he withheld them, allowing Ana to bubble out.

"Every night, I-I dream. I dream of this beach, and this moon, and these waves, and a man lying there. Always a man, on his back." The front of sorrow had passed, and now Ana's voice, albeit more stable, no longer trembled so. "He was always there. I would play ball with the moon and with Mama and Papa. But it would always end, and there the man would be. Sometimes I trip over his body."

"Do you know him?" Percy asked gently.

"Yes," said Anastasia. She pulled away from Percy, meeting his gaze with a desolation and terror that constricted at the demigod's throat. "You. He's you."

_And so the plot thickens. _A lilting voice, languid with amusement, arose from the deepest and darkest corners of Percy's conscience. _How delightful. _

_Shut up, _was Percy's mental retort.

"Are you sure?" he inquired aloud, taking the girl by the shoulder. "Are you absolutely sure? Do you know it's me on the beach?"

Anastasia did not confirm with neither a nod nor a word. Rather, she seemed aimless in her search in his eyes. "That's why I have been so afraid of you," she confessed. "I see you alive and all I can think about is his eyes. How—how empty they are."

Demigod dreams were always more complicated than mere playtime for the brain. The dreams of a demigod were like windows into a grim future. Other times, the dreams took the dreamer to places in present-time. In their sleeping hours, a demigod was helplessly victim to the Fates, who showed them whatever is necessary or adequate to see. Of course, a demigod experienced ordinary dreams, and it was never all that difficult to distinguish visions from fantasy.

Anastasia dreamed of him, lying motionless on this very shoreline. Repeatedly.

He did not allow trepidation to dishearten his smile. As it grew, Ana found that Percy's smile was one of those damned smiles that one couldn't help but find a contagious quality to. Her own smile was lovely and dimpled, and forgetting herself and her fear, she took Percy Jackson's large finger in her slight little hand.

"Want to see something cool?" With a twinkling mischief, Percy leaned in to whisper his offer, as though it was some forbidden secret.

The youngest Valdez hesitated for a heartbeat or two, then nodded at last. "You're not scared?" she breathed.

Percy, taking her small hand in his own, turned to waves. "Scared?" he chuckled. "Of what? Of death?"

"Yes," answered Ana, clinging to the prince's hand as he began treading through the waves.

"Well," Percy furrowed his brow in thought. "It would probably make sense. To be afraid of death. See, there's this place we all go when we die. A wonderful place, filled with the most respected people in the world and all of your closest friends. But I don't think I'd be welcome there."

"Why not?" asked Ana, bestowing true earnesty. "The tickets are sold out?"

_An immaculate wedding dress, a breathtaking smile. Kiss, cheers, laughter, the clinking of goblets of nectar and wine. Lively violins and flutes providing a tune to which to dance. Clapping. _

"Well, not really," admitted Percy. The sea was up to Ana's knees now as they trekked further from sturdy land. "Things got…"

_Screams, fire, roaring, blood. The wedding dress afire, the newlywed inside it beating at the flames like it was some tangible enemy. Goblets shattering on marble tiles. Begging for life. And a voice rising above it all, with the plumes of choking smoke._

"_The Son of Poseidon has betrayed us!" _

"... Complicated."

"Oh." Ana let her fingertips trail over the sloshing tide.

"Ana," Percy began warily, voice as gentle as he could manage. "Do your parents know what you can do?"

Anastasia Valdez looked away. Even in the dimness of night, Percy could see her reddening.

"No," she said at last. "I haven't been doing it for very long."

"I haven't seen anything like it," declared the Exiled Prince. "I mean—I _have, _but not from such a little girl. What are you, seven, eight?"

"5."

Percy gaped, because she sure as hell didn't look it. This girl looked maybe 7, at the very _very _least. And she was composed, held herself with the poise and maturity one couldn't find in most adults. It was like the poor girl had been robbed of her childhood. She looked so grown up, even with such a youthful face and slight frame. _So this is what could happen when you mix Titan blood with a god's_, mused Percy privately. _You get a whole new species. _

"What are we doing out here?" Ana broke his reveries. "We won't find him—you. He's never here."

"Do you dance, Ana?" Percy asked, scanning the inky waves.

"No," said the girl.

"Well, you're about to."

Just as he said those final words, there was a ripple that widened from the pair. A ripple in the water that stilled the waves in a radius of roughly twenty feet in all directions. The waters within their circle were completely tranquil.

Ana was breathless, and with that, speechless. She blinked, shook her head, then rubbed her eyes.

"Look at your feet," prompted Percy with a gentle smile.

She did, and her hands flew to her mouth when she found that the baby waves no longer lapped at her knees and soaked her nightgown, but upon the water she stood, as if it were real solid stone. She stood still as a statuette for several passing moments, then took a tentative step forth. Ripples passed over the face of the serene waters, the perfect reflection of the star-speckled sky becoming slightly distorted.

"How are you doing this?" cried Ana, true delight plastered over a most-times sullen face.

"Magic," Percy answered.

…

The blind man could see.

Apollo blinked owlishly at the night beyond the windshield of his golden car, hands gripping the wheel, although not seconds before he hadn't the privilege to see anything at all. The car had been driving itself. As a magical chariot of Olympus, it was capable of that.

A grim clarity instilled itself in the sun god. He grit his teeth, eyes fluttering to the rearview mirror. The headlights of a following vehicle glared back.

A soft, aggravated curse from his side. Apollo glanced over as Artemis leaned forth in her shotgun seat in an effort to get a clear view of the moon that had so ensnared her. "Can't see her," she muttered.

"Arty," whispered the man who had once been the sun god. What he said next nabbed the moon goddess' attention at last, and she looked at her twin brother.

"_Run_."

…

The child and the prince danced under the everglowing moon.

Anastasia Valdez, her youth sound as she laughed and kicked about in the sea underfoot, with gentle tremored like agitated jello. This further delighted the girl, and as she stomped on the water again, a fountain sprung to life. Salt water jumped high to catch the moon's luminosity, so that winking diamonds became airborne and danced through the twilight air.

Percy allowed himself a quirk of the lips, a mere ghost of cheer, and beheld his handiwork as the daughter of gods and titans twirled like a ballerina under the sea spray. The sight was truly ethereal.

…

"You have to run," urged Apollo, frantically pushing at his sister's shoulder, who looked at him as though he had sprouted a second head.

"If there is danger, Apollo," she said, "we'll face it. We're gods, you idiot." Artemis leaned ahead in her seat again and smiled as the moon returned to sight.

Sweat specked sheening his brow, Apollo glimpsed the headlights of their tail again. She still thought the gods were in power, poor delusional woman. Neither of them are gods.

Not for months.

…

The waves began to dance along the rim with the pulse of a heart. In stunned awe, Ana beheld this all in her wonder-stricken orbs.

She turned to Percy, and there were tears in her eyes. Concern marred the prince, and he stepped over to counsel her. But she laughed and pushed him away. Those tears were not sorrowful, they were relics of glee.

"I don't know what to say!" she shouted over the crashing of the dancing sea. Then something stole her attention, eyes turning to Percy's feet, and what replaced such a pure happiness was a potent horror.

Ana screamed as a vice-like grasp closed around Percy Jackson's ankle.

…

"Artemis, if you don't get out and run, so help me dad I will _kick you out myself_," hissed the sun god, shaking her by the shoulder.

Artemis took no heed, allowing an absent "Mhm."

…

Percy yipped like an alarmed puppy.

He jerked up and brought the heel of his other bare foot down upon the wrist of his attacker. Surprisingly, as far as most attackers go and their notorious stubbornness, the grasp on his ankle instantly grew slack.

The sea went crashing back to its home, subsiding from the beach over which it had crawled to accommodate the will of their master, and the pleasure of the ghast-clad girl.

"It's him!" shouted—_screamed—_Anastasia, ignoring Percy's apparent loss of dignity. "It's you! _From my dreams!_"

…

The disguised chariot, like its owner, was dying.

The engine choked and sputtered. The night lights that marked the fingers of the odometer and gas gage blinked rapidly, and the headlights blew out. Apollo, like his relic, felt an indomitable weight upon his shoulders, and he crippled under it, slouching in his seat.

"Please, Art…" He struggled, frantic. "They're coming. They're coming and I won't be able to help you."

"I never needed your protection, brother," Artemis said, almost vacant as she ate up the sight of the moon. His struggles went entirely unknown to the infatuated woman.

…

"Ana," Percy said sharply, crouching down beside the man. "Ana, go, now. Get your parents." His voice was steady and calm, yet no less urgent. "Tell them what happened."

Ana was still for a moment, aghast as she stared at the tangible figment of her nightmares.

"Go!" Percy urged.

She did, dashing up the stone stairway that led to the hills and their cabin.

He watched her retreat for a moment, then fixed his attention in the man. The man _was _roughly his size, and even though his hair was matted with a thick layer of grit and sand, appeared to be raven dark. Holding his breath, Percy turned the man over.

His heart stopped. It was not him.

Poseidon, God of the Seas, stared glassily back.

…

"My time is _up, _Artemis!" Apollo was screaming now, beating at his sister's shoulder. The car rolled to a stop, and the smell of gasoline and smoke was acrid. "Can't you tell? Don't you _see_?"

"I see her," Artemis said softly, ever so entranced by the medallion inlaid amid night's canvas. "I see her, how she mocks me and the death of my Hunt."

"You can rebuild! You can re-sanction! Begin again—_anew! _But, Artemis, please. _You have to go_!" Apollo _begged. _

The doors of the vehicle behind them opened. It too had slowed to a stop.

**...**

Percy stared. A riptide of once buried feelings tore at the shores of his consciousness. Feelings that he had buried, deep down, locked away, forgotten.

Or so they had been.

Shock slammed its tusks against the hedges of his awareness. It was a stunning stillness that left Percy gaping down at the man in the sand. Then rose a sense of wariness, a touch of confusion, brimming on madness. It assaulted his mind, contorting into an unbridled, sheer and unrelenting terror that seized him.

The son's hands flew to the father's shoulders. "Dad? Dad!"

…

HYDRA was drawing near.

Even from their angle, Apollo could see the stalkers drawing their weapons and cautiously approaching the car, wary of an attack from the unknown occupants. The street was empty. The only potential witnesses would be the civilians who would scramble for the windows to get a grasp on the shootout that was sure to transpire.

Apollo lunged across and rooted his hands at the seat's headrest on either side of Artemis' head, blocking her view of the moon. Artemis grimaced in aggravation and tried to shove him off, but her bothersome twin wouldn't budge.

"Artemis! Artemis, look at me!" he grabbed her head and forced her eyes to meet his own.

HYDRA heard the shouting from within the vehicle, and quickened their pace.

"Remember who you are," Apollo whispered, shaking her more gently now. "Remember, come on."

Artemis' silver orbs sharpened, and that keen clarity flickered at the helm of her senses. She looked at her brother, truly, for the first time in a year.

"Apollo…" she whispered, hapless, like a meek child. So unlike her.

"Run," her brother replied. holding her face. "Run."

She looked past him, at the men approaching, at the moon and the stars and her beloved brother whom she had forsaken for so long. Artemis wanted to cry. Where was she? What had happened? Had the moon fooled her? Had she been hoodwinked?

Had the beauty of the face in the sky been a farce?

…

_One, two, three. _

For three beats, Percy pumped the heel of his hands against Poseidon's breast, attempting to stimulate a heartbeat.

_One, two, three. _

The desperation of a frantic and beaten child clawed and bit and gnarled at Percy. He kept going, relentless.

_One, two.._

_One…_

Movement. Poseidon budged coughed, hacked, and he rolled over to vomit. Percy laughed, forgetting himself, and pulled away, watching his father upchuck see water.

Sea water. Percy's delight vanished like a smudge under rain. Had the sea betrayed his father?

"P-Percy," wheezed Poseidon through chapped lips. This wasn't right; gods' lips weren't supposed to be chapped. Gods were the epitome of strength and health.

"Dad," breathed the exiled prince. "Dad, what happened?"

Poseidon chuckled wryly, his fingers enclosing into a fist. "Out of all the places to-to wash up. The Fates really do h-have a sense of humor."

Nothing about this was funny.

"Dad, what _happened_?"

The god that had once been a figure of such indomitable strength and will and loyalty rolled back over to gaze up at Percy. "My son, oh my son," he whispered, hand straying up to touch the young man above him on the cheek. "I am so sorry."

…

A shout from outside. Apollo lurched and looked over his sister's shoulder, where HYDRA were swiftly closing in on them. He looked down at his sister, a woman who seemed so young and meek. And he gave her one comforting squeeze of the shoulder.

"It's okay."

And with a speed that denied all things physical and comprehensively natural, Artemis was gone. Apollo closed his eyes and gripped his hands into fists as he heard the barking of gunfire pursuing his retreating sister. They would never catch her,

Nothing could.

"Father?" Apollo's voice was shaky. "Are you listening?"

…

Poseidon was trembling. Percy looked up, frantically scanning the crests of the hills that ringed the beach. No sign of Ana or Leo, Calypso or Nico. Nobody was coming.

"Dad, what're talking about?"

"You know what I'm saying," breathed Poseidon, gaze fixed entirely on his son. "You know what we did to you. Do they—" he faltered, and for a moment it looked like he, Poseidon, god of the seas, was holding back a sob. "Do they still hurt?"

"You mean the brands on my back?" Percy leaned over his father, gripping the ashamed god's hand tightly. "No."

"You're a bad liar. Got that from—" he coughed, and the cough shook his entire body in a brief but alarmingly violent spasm. He covered, breathing steadily as possible. "—from Sally. And from me, I suppose. My brothers and my wife could always tell when I lied."

"They don't," insisted Percy, in vain.

"Don't try to fool me, son. Don't try to fool me like we fooled Olympus."

…

"If you're even up there anymore?" Apollo raised his voice to a shout, and he beat the ceiling of the car. "Rotting on your throne like the miserable man you are!"

HYDRA was there. An arm broke through the window and grabbed Apollo in a headlock, which he fought with the fierceness of a rabid beast. "Don't you see what you have done, father? The mistake you made?"

"He's mad," muttered a HYDRA agent, who kept his distance, pistol leveled. Apollo, with a burst of strength, flung the HYDRA agent that had him in a headlock off of him.

A shout. A blinding blow to the back of his head from a baton. Apollo sprawled on the road, but he was still raving, albeit disoriented. "Banishing him was a mistake! Admit that! _Admit it!"_

…

"What?" Percy blanked.

"It was a mistake." Tears threatened to spill over the rim. "I knew it was a mistake the moment it happened. The moment Ares—"

"_What mistake?" _He let go of his father's hand.

Poseidon coughed, then set his jaw, which trembled still. "Percy," he muttered, "you did not kill Piper McLean."

…

Hands, strong, terribly rough hands grasped Apollo's shoulders. A gash across his brow now leaked crimson mortal blood and blinded the poor man, who babbled his madness like a drunkard in mourning.

"But I have a daughter!" he screamed triumphantly into the night sky. "I have a daughter, and she sees what nobody can!" He laughed, gleefully and so utterly insanely. "And she's coming for you, you cowardly bastard! _Not even Zeus can hide from the wrath of Abigail Day!"_

The sky growled in retort.

…

Percy allowed the truth to sink itself in. The _truth _was so completely unfathomable, that it hadn't truly registered at first. But when it did, Percy had forgotten how to breathe.

Unmoving, he blankly stared on as his father let it all out. "You-You scared my brother, Zeus. Terrified him, even. He… wanted you gone, despite what you sacrificed for us. Some gods agreed, others did not, with you in favor. In fact, as I recall, you were the winning vote. Whenever you were around, there was an almost tangible tension in the atmosphere. Then I learned that the gods had betrayed the vote, betrayed ceremony and honor, and plotted your exile in secret. Your power was so great, my son," he said softly. "But even then, you were no matching rival to the cunning deception of the gods. I tried to stop it before it even started, the plan to frame you…"

"The plan to…" This was too much in one dose. He was outrageously overwhelmed.

_Blood on his fingers. Piper's detached head was in his lap, glassy eyes devoid of anything at all. Blood on his fingers. Blood on his fingers. Blood on his fingers. Blood—_

"But I—I remember," Percy breathed. "I _remember it._"

"What came after, maybe," Poseidon's voice was waning. Blood, dark, red, _mortal _blood ran from one of his nostrils. "But… but do you remember _doing _it?" He faltered, the words hurting as they came out. "Do you remember beheading her?"

He didn't have to answer aloud to tell him that he didn't. Percy audibly gasped, heaving, holding his chest. This was.. This was… what was this? For so long, so very long had he listlessly roamed the earth, the guilt of avoiding the penalty of a crime he thought he committed, a crime he was _convicted _for. The scars and brands on his back were false.

"Who did it?" Percy said, near inaudible, "Who killed Piper?"

Poseidon was dying, this he could see. Guilt shone tearily in his eyes, such a horrible guilt that must have shredded at him for so long. "It's beginning, son," said his father. "The war is lost, the Era of the Gods has drained, and the Fates have knotted their tethers."

Percy said nothing, but baffled he was. He was baffled, he was scared, and he was more than merely angry. Words could not possibly fathom the sheer, raw _rage _that festered in his heart.

"And _you," _Poseidon's tone changed. Although soft, it was now something as lethal and perilous as the storms he once commanded. He may have been looking at Percy as he spoke, but it was not Percy he addressed.

"You," the words weren't simply spoken, but spat, directly at Chaos. "My son is your _doom_."

And in this state of complete and utter weakness in Percy Jackson, the lurid presence within him sunk its fangs into the helm of his mind, and seized control. Wearing Percy's face, eyes ebony stones, Chaos leaned forth, the wicked smile plastered over his face so very misplaced on a man so often kind and caring.

"I know. But the Serpent never bowed to the Lion, did he?"

And in one swift and terrible motion, fluid as removing a bottle cap, Chaos snapped Poseidon's neck.

…

Apollo felt it. A twang in his soul, like harplay out of tune. Like odd keynotes and a dysfunctional symphony. He felt the gun at the back of his head, and he found himself on his knees, hands, with fingers interlocked, behind his head, kneeling under the light of a glaring lamp post.

A man, black and silent as a phantom, blocked his view of the light. "What is your relationship with Mara Day?" The voice, pleasant and honeyed, asked rather politely.

Apollo spat out a tooth that was knocked loose when he was floored by the baton, and his bloody grin was deemed unsettling. How strange and beautiful, it truly was, to see again. Even if it hadn't been for much longer. Oh, the things he would've given to see his daughter. To see her eyes, and the prescience shining there.

"We kanoodled," he said frankly, and his car behind them exploded.

Apollo closed his seeing eyes for the last time and turned to face the stars as the fires, like a vengeful beast, came to feast upon his flesh.

The sun god was dead.

…

It took Leo and Calypso Valdez too long to reach the beach.

Calypso didn't stop when she saw the body beside a kneeling Percy, but rather quickened her pace. Leo kept up with her, completely alert, with the family med back in his hands.

"Percy!" he called. "What the Hades happened?"

Percy was still. So still, in fact, and so very unsettling, that the couple stopped. Leo's demigod wiring flared in warning, and before his wife could react, he stepped between he and the thing that was _not _Percy Jackson.

Chaos snarled and flung about, hurling from his hand a sphere of lime green fire. It exploded against Leo's back in a dazzling and eerie display of blazing green flames. When the smoke cleared, surrounding the Valdez's in every direction, the sand had been burned to glass. So sheer was the heat of Chaos' attack that it had transfigured the laws of nature itself. Despite Leo's body-shield, Calypso had been blown off her feet, and she was now attempting to right herself. She turned, dazed and hurt, and saw in the rippling haze her husband locked in mortal and fatal combat with the beast wearing Percy's skin.

Green and orange fire rose around them in a battle of will and vigor, a maelstrom of powers so indefinitely angelic and demonic, that Calypso could not tear her eyes away. So this is what it looked like. This is what war did to people.

In an intense ten seconds of exchanges, Chaos ruthlessly tore into Leo, driving him flat on the ground. The father, husband, and friend tried to stand, but his knee was literally knocked loose as Chaos drove his foot into the side of his leg. The snap was soundly, and Leo screamed.

With a nonchalance that was misplaced in the face of such mercilessness, Chaos pushed Leo aside with a poke of the index finger.

"Leo!" Calypso wailed, and rushed for the defense of her beloved husband.

Something stopped her. A hand so frigid and firm that Calypso thought it might be ice. She looked back to find Nico di Angelo, eyes not on the Titaness but fixed on Chaos, holding her back.

"Protect your daughter." He was grim, and he was urgent. "Protect her at all costs. Even if it means your life."

"But Leo…"

"I'll handle this," Nico assured her, and when she looked into those horrifyingly dark eyes, she believed him.

Calypso cast Chaos a glower of such profound distaste that any mortal man would have keeled over and died then and there. She looked down at her wheezing husband again, who crouched on one knee. Leo, uncharacteristically solemn, gave her one slight nod. _Go. _

Calypso retreated back up the beach, hating herself for it, but knowing she had no other choice.

Chaos' grin was lazy, but there was a touch of wariness behind those featureless eyes. "Something's different about this one," Chaos mused, mostly to himself. "Almost familiar…"

Nico answered, but not in the way one might imagine.

From his back sprouted two black, 12-foot spanning wings of an eagle. The limbs were huge and majestic, and under their feathers twinkled what looked like stars. Nico was winged.

"Ah," Chaos nodded in understanding, "Asrafel has claimed you as her host."

"There's a distinct difference from the 'relationship' you and Percy harbor," Nico shook his head, and drew his long, slender, stygian iron sword. It seemed to seep all the heat in the air, replacing it with a cold that brought frost to lips and rashes to skin. "Asrafel and I, we have an accord."

"How adorable." Chaos's hands became torches of green hellish fire, basking them in its horrible phosphorescence. "Get out of my way. The blood of two races poses a special, personal interest to me."

"If you're gonna get to Anastasia, you've got get through me," Nico declared, then he winced. "Gods, that sounds cliche."

"Do you really want to dance this waltz?" Chaos questioned, the two beginning to circle as the beast deemed Nico too dangerous to overlook. "I promise you, the outcome will be most unpleasant."

"That Biblical charade of yours is fooling nobody," Nico drawled, calm as a mother bear in her den, "But by all means..."

Nico di Angelo's smirk was menacing, and so delightfully fiendish, "Let's frolic."

…

**Hoo boy. Okay. I just did that. **

**Word count: 13094**

**I hope you enjoyed!**

**A special thanks to kramer53 for proofreading, encouragement, and patience, and the sharing of ideas and opinions. I wouldn't have gotten this far without her. **

**kramer53: He gives me too much credit. All I do is get his gears turning. He does the rest.**

**And pssssst… you should check out my one-shot titled "Red and Blue" ;) it's guaranteed to make you hate me.**


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